Chapter Text
It’s the sky that greets him, painted in the gentle morning hues of pink and blue.
After he is able to crack open the concrete layered upon his eyes acting as his eyelids, anyway. A physical weight and a physical effort to chip through with the fluttering of his lashes. The clouds that dot the sky sway, a double image flickering in an uneven overlay that inspires Shinsou’s stomach to coil as a mass of worms with how nausea quickly builds.
A wince, but blessedly does the sky take pity. His vision calms before stabilizing, the clouds inert and the colours no longer swirling like rough water rapids. A breath, in and out. A chirping of a bird is sounded not far from him, signalling the departure of the ringing that was once present in his ears.
Shinsou stares listlessly. His eyes are stones in their sockets, weighing down his skull. He lies horizontally and is still, but phantom undulations could almost convince him that he is actually on a ship that barrels through the ocean’s waves. Nausea persists like a serpent leisurely coiling itself around him, and Shinsou finds himself clenching his fists in an effort to keep it at bay, staring at the sky and manually willing his stomach to settle.
Through sheer force of will, like releasing an anchor, his body does indeed soothe. He blinks. Slow and sluggish, and the sky persists in its pastel appearance. He blinks, quicker this time, as alertness creeps upon him, and the sky is uncaring as it looks down on him. He blinks, eye twitching and brows beginning to furrow as the sky remains unchanged.
The sky, because he’s outside. For—some reason.
A reason that cannot possibly spell anything good for Shinsou, especially as he stirs and catalogues that he’s in his UA uniform, laying on a park bench, groggily attempting to recall the last twenty-four hours and only receiving a wince as his head pulsates with a sudden stabbing sensation as soon as he moves to sit.
He massages his temples in a meager attempt to relieve the icepick currently drilling into his brain, face twisted in the struggle and then smoothed out as the throbbing recedes into a manageable, dull annoyance. Shinsou releases his head, elbows on his knees and he squints at his surroundings.
A park bench predictably nestled within a park. A dampness stuck to his uniform due to the morning’s condensation that had accumulated upon his undignified bunk. A disheveled uniform that he cringes at the thought of having to explain, his memory still unreliable but the picture being drawn is not one he wishes to admire.
See, Shinsou would preferably not give more fodder to his less-than-chummy schoolmates who enjoy making it a sport to throw jeers his way. Him cosplaying as some vagrant who took a snooze on a bench would certainly delight those who spit the title of ‘Villain’ his way, morphing their sneers into a triumphant baring of teeth, their recent adage of ‘the Throwaway’ holding merit with how Shinsou’s uniform wrinkles like discarded trash.
They’re just—words. Insults hold no power unless he allows it. But as Shinsou scans his immediate surroundings and finds only grass and sparse trees and the steady bustling of pedestrians beginning their day, his skin prickles uncomfortably at the mere thought of the stares he is certain to receive. Knowing looks. Derisive snickers and curled lips of contempt targeted his way at having to share the same space as the waste pile masquerading as their schoolmate. The mangy stray dog that’s better off muzzled—
Spiraling is not a good use of his time. No use crying over spilled milk. Shinsou breathes in acceptance of his situation, a deep inhale stretching his ribcage, and, yeah. He slept on a damn park bench overnight, he’s nursing an aching head and he knows he must face the consequences of his actions: that he was kicked out (thrown out) of the group home after presumably instigating some stupid argument that turned physical, all before he could properly shed his school uniform because he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment, apparently.
Out of the roster of rotating house-parents, his money is on either Tachibana and Kajiwara who enacted their divine wrath upon him, but it ultimately doesn’t matter. His memory will eventually piece itself together and he’ll remember what needless backtalk or eye-rolling or whatever unholy combination of both he did that justified getting booted and passing out on a random bench.
It’s not the… worst thing that could happen to him, he reasons. It could be raining, after all. He could be bleeding, but a quick once over proves he was granted mercy in that regard. Shinsou knows that returning to the home wearing a particularly pathetic expression and giving a deep bow while pleading an apology or two will grant him re-entry; with his recompense being to shoulder all the chores of the house for a month or more, but he’ll have a bed and roof over his head with his dues all paid.
(Always so stupid. So very ungrateful. He’s heard it all before and still cannot seem to learn.)
Shinsou is going to become an underground Hero anyway—he’ll have to learn how to sleep rough. It’s a learning experience.
Shinsou would have been content with accepting such silver linings and carrying on with his life. ‘Would have’ being the key phrase because when Shinsou digs out his phone from his pocket, he realizes two things simultaneously: a) his alarm didn’t sound and b) school is going to start soon.
He feels his eye twitch. And scanning his surroundings as he stands, he cannot find his school bag, which noticeably darkens any bright side he was attempting to fathom from this situation.
“Shit,” he grits out empathetically, dragging a hand upwards his face and gripping his hair so tightly his scalp tingles.
Either his bag is still at the home, or it was stolen as he slept. He knows he would have used it as a pillow if he slept with it, which is really the universe’s way of loudly declaring him a complete idiot, because that means someone was able to lift his bag while he was actively on it and still wasn’t roused at all. Just like some useless sack of meat.
But hey: he still possesses his phone and school ID in his pockets. Keeping a lookout on that bright side, even if it feels like he could bang his head against a tree until his skull split open.
UA is visible upon the horizon, if he goes at it in a dead sprint he could arrive at the gates early—which is probably why past Shinsou decided to use this park bench as his impromptu bed as opposed to the dog house present in the backyard of the home. The home doesn’t have a dog. But it does have a dog house nestled where it is conspicuously hidden from the eyes of passersby and neighbours. The very same dog house he once curled himself in when he had arrived home late one night, discovering the rule that the doors were locked and would stay that way after curfew.
There’s nothing else that can be done except get moving, running like there’s a Villain attack and passing off the unfortunate task of explaining why he doesn’t have his school bag to his teachers onto In-The-Near-Future-Shinsou, as Present Shinsou focuses solely on getting one foot in front of the other.
Steadying his breaths and neatening his uniform with UA’s gates bearing down upon him, Shinsou idly muses he might’ve broken a sprinting world record as he attempts to clear out the wrinkles of his pants. With moments to spare, no matter how scant, Shinsou holds onto the reprieve as long as he is able to, before he has to start a day he knows will lead to many a headache.
The momentary pause allows him to ruminate. Specifically on the persistent sense of… unease that’s been trailing after him like his shadow, the ground beneath his feet swaying like the world’s rotating off its axis, his skin prickling uncomfortably like errant eyes are drawn to him but when he looks, no passing students gaze his way. Not even hidden glances are shot at him when Shinsou pretends he’s not looking.
Off. Something’s off, his body can sense it but regrettably his brain hasn’t been able to decipher just what yet.
Suddenly, like its instinct, Shinsou feels the urge to seek out Aizawa.
He bars away the thought, purposefully ignoring the too-clear memory of Aizawa telling Shinsou that he can come to him for any questions, any clarifications, regarding training or general coursework, and to seek him out especially for emergencies. Aizawa emphasized that point. Gave Shinsou his literal phone number, was the one to start their text chat and everything, so Shinsou has a very easy and ready line of communication with the man.
But this isn’t an emergency. An emergency is defined as something life or death, says so in the dictionary. His school bag being missing is—not humiliating, merely humbling, and hardly a crisis that would require Aizawa’s attention. He’s the homeroom teacher for Heroics, Shinsou has no intention of insulting the man with such a waste of time and he certainly isn’t going to freely give the man any reason to believe that Shinsou isn’t worth it; that he’s too much of a hassle and a mistake to train. The thought of which causes a sensation like milk curdling in Shinsou’s stomach to arise.
A nonsensical thought then sprouts: maybe Mic-sensei could grant Shinsou some crumbs of leniency in this whole debacle. That maybe the English teacher would howl out a cheery laugh or two at Shinsou’s expense while patting the teen’s shoulder in solidarity but ultimately—and Shinsou surprises himself, as in actually blinking dumbly at the feeling—that he is confident that Mic-sensei would help. Alleviate some of Shinsou’s burden by helping solve the mystery of Shinsou’s runaway bag, and impart some pretty solid thrift or 100-yen store recommendations that could replenish his lost items for cheap.
And, hopefully if Shinsou asks very, very nicely, maybe Mic-sensei won’t tell Aizawa about this mishap. Really play up some pitiful puppy-dog eyes for sympathy points, but considering how Shinsou’s face looks like with his sallow skin and heavy eyebags, it’s more likely he’ll give Mic-sensei the heebie-jeebies and make the man consider burying Shinsou six feet under instead. Which isn't something Shinsou is necessarily against at the moment.
His thoughts are interrupted by a hearty cheer sounding from behind him.
“Ah, Shinsou-kun! Good morning!”
Tall and broad shouldered and—from what Shinsou has been able to observe—chronically with a stick up his ass: for some unfathomable reason, Iida Tenya is currently approaching him.
What did Shinsou do? Which god did he offend, that like collecting points on a bingo card, more misery follows in his wake?
Iida comes to a stop before him, for some reason, and before Shinsou can finish the thought that at least the guy has the courtesy of being nice to look at, Iida speaks to him. Speaks at him. For some reason. Gesticulating like one of those wavy inflatable tube men.
“It is always delightful to see a fellow classmate be punctual. As students of this most prestigious institution, it is only right to arrive before the first bell rings with time to spare. I expected nothing less from you, Shinsou, as the hardworking and diligent student that you are—“
Iida’s words suddenly die on his tongue as his hand is halted mid chop, blinking at Shinsou.
For a fleeting moment, Shinsou is filled with pride, because he assumes his plan of staring blankly and without blinking at Mr. Emergency-Exit has paid off. That Iida has become sufficiently unnerved enough to drop whatever this charade is and will proceed to back off; Shinsou would’ve even done him the favour of ignoring whatever the hell this attempt was and never speaking with him, but that was wishful thinking, as Iida opens his mouth again.
“Where is your school bag, Shinsou?” Iida’s confusion does sound genuine, which only drapes a healthy dose of wariness to weigh down Shinsou’s shoulders. Iida restarts gesticulating, and Shinsou mentally sighs. “As a student it is your responsibility to not only arrive on time, but likewise to be fully prepared to take all your academic responsibilities head on. Doing so shows that you respect our teachers, the school, our fellow schoolmates—and yourself!” A huff, as if it’s Shinsou wasting his time. “Did you misplace it? It wouldn’t be like you to forget something so integral. You are a model student, I was just complimenting your character!”
Which really is the crux of the issue, isn’t it? The big fat why. Why Iida, who Shinsou has never shared any words with, is suddenly feeling very friendly. Too friendly.
Shinsou steals a glance at his surroundings, intimately aware of each passerby, listening to any idle conversations that drift his way, and quickly surveying for any nook that could be charitably called a hiding place. His shoulders have long since grown taut as soon as Iida approached him, a coil ready to spring, and Shinsou spies no visible cracks to denote this as an ambush.
But Iida’s in Heroics, undoubtedly smarter than Shinsou and has a classmate who is literally invisible.
Whereas Shinsou, comparatively, has more in likeness to an insect: something ugly and dirty and a nuisance deserving of nothing more than to be stepped on, and Iida seems like the type to fumigate with extreme prejudice to ensure everything is squeaky clean and perfect. Probably internally salivating at the realization that Shinsou is missing his bag, just dreaming about all the write ups and scoldings he could flay Shinsou with.
“… I don’t have it.” Shinsou eventually settles on drawing out, voice dust dry. He decides against bringing his arm upwards to rub the back of his neck to feign timidness, not wanting to encourage Iida further, and instead displays no outward emotion at all.
It’s giving Iida an out: to give the guy a chance to recognize that whatever he’s trying to do isn’t working and to cut his losses.
“Well—I, I can see that!” Iida splutters, a full body reaction. “But you have neglected to explain the reasoning behind its absence! As class representative, you know I simply cannot stand idly by as a fellow classmate blatantly disregards school rules, not to mention common sense. You—“ one karate chop, two karate chops, “—You need your school bag, Shinsou.”
Iida adjusts his glasses and Shinsou squints. The guy said it twice now. Just from this interaction alone Shinsou knows that Iida is the type to pull his teeth out instead of misspeaking, so he was very clearly intentional when he referred to Shinsou as classmate, not schoolmate. A level of familiarity that is categorically untrue and the guy must be playing some sort of 4-D chess game behind those glasses that Shinsou doesn’t know the rules of.
If the guy is trying to pull strings in an effort to get Shinsou to question his sanity, he’s not doing a particularly good job at it. Sure, Iida’s conviction appears startlingly genuine, but Shinsou has had enough experience of others questioning his memory, trivializing his feelings, doubting his credibility and refusing to listen to him that it makes Iida’s impromptu acting career completely ineffective against Shinsou—he knows the signs now. Shinsou is better at shielding himself from those who strive to manipulate how he thinks.
Iida isn’t a prankster, Shinsou’s sure the guy would develop an aneurysm at the mere thought of engaging in some tomfoolery, especially against a fellow student and especially on school grounds. Which just means Shinsou stands in dangerous territory.
As Iida’s an apparent motormouth, Brainwashing him would be a cakewalk. Unless that’s what he wants . Enacting some sort of litmus test against Shinsou, taking his class rep duties so far up his ass that he needs to gauge Shinsou’s level of villainousness before Shinsou has even transferred. Just itching to tattle to Aizawa because who wants the Villain in their class.
And Aizawa—
He’d listen to the class representative because that’s just the rational thing to do.
Shinsou turns towards the gates with the intention of leaving. Because actions speak louder than words: Iida should be at least appreciative of Shinsou’s desire to head to class. The bell will ring soon which will free Shinsou from this weirdo, but until then, Shinsou will endure.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
Politeness goes a long way, or so he’s been told. Shinsou valiantly doesn’t use the words ‘fuck off,’ so at this point Shinsou should be thanked for his efforts.
Shinsou doesn’t get very far because there’s suddenly a 5’10” wall of distracting muscle in front of him. Shinsou is abruptly annoyed that the guy is now a noticeable 2 cm taller than him as he flicks his gaze upwards to meet Iida’s.
“Shinsou,” Iida starts, brows pinched. “Are you alright? Did—“ Iida’s face does some twitching, like he can’t settle on an emotion. The guy leans forward, in turn making Shinsou lean back warily, and Iida pitches his voice into a pressing whisper with his hand cupping his mouth. “Are there… scoundrels bothering you?”
Shinsou understands that this is a perfect opportunity to use Iida’s words against him by snarking back that yes , he is being bothered, right now, by the guy currently speaking at him. But Shinsou is so thrown by the word ‘scoundrel’ being used completely seriously that he can do little else than stare incredulously at Iida. What year is it?
Iida continues, his gaze a physical manifestation of steel that keeps Shinsou in place with a voice carrying an undercurrent of urgency, like he’s making a real effort to convince Shinsou of whatever nonsense he’ll spew next.
“Was your bag stolen? By those that refuse to accept there isn't such a thing as a ‘Villain’s quirk’?”
That gets a reaction against Shinsou’s will. The term ‘Villain’s quirk’ always does, no matter how versed he is in becoming a rock that is unbothered by the river of contempt that flows over it. Two emotions fight each other in an attempt to break through his expression first: Curling his lip into a snarl, or turning his head downwards in an act of capitulation as to demonstrate he isn’t a threat .
Shinsou’s lips thin instead. Iida carries on. “I am well aware you are fully capable of handling yourself but I am equally as aware that you have a tendency to act allergic to the mere idea of others helping you, especially if it concerns the subject of bullying.”
In, and out. Deep breaths. Shinsou darts his eyes to his surroundings to ensure that a crowd hasn’t suddenly materialized out of thin air, all wearing callous grins and ready to jeer at him, bustling with laughter laced with barbs that would skewer Shinsou’s body.
“To quote Uraraka, ‘teamwork makes the dream work,’ ” Iida continues, heedless, adjusting his glasses as he straightens his back and Shinsou could strangle him. “There is no shame in admitting when you need help, Shinsou. UA has a zero tolerance for bullying, as I’m sure you know, and as your friend—“
“We’re not friends, you freak,” Shinsou snaps, teeth bared and fists clenched at his sides. “Leave me alone.”
And that should’ve been the end of it. Shinsou is not a charity case for Iida to get extra credit from and he refuses to indulge in whatever delusions of grandeur four-eyes has convinced himself of. Shinsou steps around Iida, flourishing his departure by shoulder-checking the guy and reveling in the pettiness—before regretting the action because Iida is made a solid fucking rock, ow.
UA’s gates are right there, so close yet so far away, and Iida’s voice prompts Shinsou to only take a few paltry steps before halting.
It’s not Iida’s voice itself—discordantly small despite who it belongs to—but rather the words spoken; so completely baffling that Shinsou feels as though he has run into an invisible wall.
“We’re—not friends? But…”
Shinsou turns on his heel, powered by a very raw sense of disbelief that is starting to set his blood to boil. He doesn’t bother masking it on his face, baring it to Iida in a way that Shinsou hopes the guy sees in high-definition with his stupid glasses.
Iida’s face is a little comical. Aghast is the word. Nursing an open wound.
Iida relearns to speak, sounding precariously loose-footed and fruitlessly attempting to find stable ground. “Shinsou, I—but we have lunch together! We study together, and, and you’ve had dinner at my house. ”
Accentuated with, of course, many hand motions.
Cool. Shinsou now has to tell Aizawa that his class representative has gone completely insane. Does this fit the definition of a parasocial relationship? How can someone like four-eyes develop some nonsensical imaginary relationship with someone like Shinsou?
“We go jogging together!” Iida continues, sounding truly affronted. He huffs a breath as if he’s flustered, and adjusts his glasses “Well, I jog while you cycle— but we do it together!”
Irreversibly insane. A lost cause that is better off taken out back and put down like Old Yeller.
Iida places his hands on his hips, exuding an incredulity that he really has no right to possess. “What is that if not friendship? ” He demands.
A delusion, for starters!
A moment, wherein Shinsou can do little else but stare because there was nothing, nothing— not in his training with Aizawa or his studies or throughout life in general—that could have possibly prepared him for a mess of this caliber.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Shinsou eventually sputters.
“Shinsou—“
Fuck it. Shinsou claims self defense.
Iida’s face turns blank, arms falling to his side as Shinsou grabs at the threads of his mind. Shinsou releases a long, slow exhale through his nose as to settle the tension thrumming through his body. The endeavour of which is noticeably soured when he glances to the side and catches a fellow student blink at the pair in curiosity. Luckily, said student takes the hint and scurries off with a quick ‘eep!’ when Shinsou shoots a withering glare their way.
Shinsou pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Go to class, Four-Eyes. Pinch yourself when you get there.”
Iida silently treads onwards, and Shinsou stays where he stands as he looks upwards to the sky and counts. Once he’s decided Iida has sufficiently created enough distance, Shinsou turns to enter UA.
This day already needs to be over.
It really is a twisted kind of fate to have Aizawa cross paths with him as Shinsou dredges through the school hallways. There’s gotta be some higher power out there that is laughing at him, because he’s halfway through the hallway without incident when Aizawa rounds the corner and all hope of a clean escape evaporates.
Shinsou’s skin crawls uncomfortably, like his uniform is suddenly a size too small. He has to manually remind himself that he’s not doing anything wrong, feeling as though he walks as a wanted criminal with the absence of his school bag suddenly the weight of a mountain. He strides onward with Aizawa lumbering towards him in the opposite direction.
It’s fine—no rules are being broken, Shinsou is doing what he’s supposed to be doing by walking to 1-C. He and Aizawa will simply cross paths as they head towards their respective classes. Shinsou will bow his head in greeting and Aizawa will give a nod of acknowledgment, because Aizawa will not clutch Shinsou’s shoulder with a hand made of claws as soon as the teen gets close enough, he will not deliver an icy fury tamed beneath an expression of cool indifference, he will not question mildly why Shinsou’s bag is missing. Squeezing Shinsou’s shoulder tighter, aiming to bruise, asking why he found his class representative with his mind controlled.
Stop that. It’s fine. Just a regular morning. Aizawa does not yet think Shinsou is a lost cause. He most likely hasn’t encountered Iida yet—but he obviously will and Iida will declare loudly in front of the entirety of 1-A of Shinsou’s transgressions with no detail spared, confirming already what is inevitable: that Shinsou is rotten to the core. A scoundrel, even. All emphasized with his ridiculous pantomiming.
It’s fine. Shinsou ducks his head in a respectful bow as he passes Aizawa, his mentor’s gaze a heavy weight upon him and his march continues—
“Class is starting soon, any reason why you’re taking the scenic route?”
Nothing is easy.
Shinsou halts automatically and turns to give Aizawa his full attention. The teacher appraises Shinsou with a flat look, appearing bored with his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit. Shinsou instinctively takes note of a pair of students conversing at the other end of the hallway and decides they are far enough away that they’ll (hopefully) not bear witness to what could be his downfall.
“Aizawa-sensei.” Shinsou greets, mirroring the man before him by pocketing his fists with his face blank. “Is a man not allowed to stretch his legs?”
Good. Banter is good. Creates an air of levity and shows that Shinsou is companionable.
Aizawa emits a low hum, giving Shinsou a considering look. “Well, let’s stroll to class together, then.” He tilts his head, gesturing to Shinsou to follow. “In the meanwhile, you can tell me what or who it is you are trying to avoid.”
Shinsou blinks. Balks a little. A heat develops in his face, the mere thought of being escorted to class like some naughty preschooler by Eraserhead is going to make him break into hives. Not even in his deepest nightmares could he fathom that.
“That’s… not necessary?” he winces. He bows again, deeper this time. “But, uhm, thank you, Sensei. Sorry for disturbing you, I’ll hurry to class right now—”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Shinsou.”
His mouth closes with an audible clink of teeth.
This is what stepping towards the gallows must feel like. It’s fine. Aizawa restarts walking, in the same direction as before which is pertinently the opposite direction of where 1-C is located. It’s fine.
One step, two steps, and it’s clear Aizawa intends to lead them contrary to what he originally stated—for what Shinsou can only assume is a logical ruse that he quickly attempts to discern with little success.
“Sensei…?” Shinsou hedges, peeking at the man walking beside him as students in his periphery shuffle into their classrooms like Aizawa’s mere presence parts the Red Sea.
Aizawa spares him a glance. “I’m listening.”
“Uh,” Shinsou starts elegantly, clearing his throat. He points behind the pair, to the other end of the hallway. “Class is that way?”
Aizawa stops, as does Shinsou. The man glances to where Shinsou points before his perpetually bloodshot eyes return to staring a hole into Shinsou’s soul.
“Yes.” The man says mildly. “The long route, which we have no reason to take.”
It’s a statement delivered flatly, but possessing a hidden question underneath. Shinsou helplessly racks his brain in the effort to read between the lines, to unravel whatever puzzle Aizawa is seemingly setting up.
Because factually, it’s not the long route: around the corner is literally where 1-C sits. Unless the school is some sort of living maze that changes its very infrastructure on occasion—which…Okay. Isn’t out of the realm of possibility.
Shinsou blinks dumbly at Aizawa. “I walk that way everyday.” He says.
Aizawa’s unblinking stare is impassive. “To which class?”
“Class… 1-C…?” Shinsou says, feeling as though he is required to test the waters for piranhas. He is suddenly unsure if he’s actually been enrolled in UA this entire time, or if he’s been wading through the school year as some sort of unregistered imposter instead.
Aizawa has a visible reaction. His brows draw together and Shinsou rapidly replays the exchange in his mind to ensure he hadn’t inadvertently stated that he wanted to jump off a bridge or something. Shinsou almost wishes he had, because then Aizawa could morph into being scandalized or annoyed or stretch out one of those cruel cheshire grins of his to tell Shinsou to do a backflip; a reaction that would make sense in response to Shinsou’s words.
Because the discernable concern slowly seeping onto Aizawa’s face is—illogical. Shinsou says two words and suddenly he’s wondering if he’s still speaking Japanese.
The world stops—which is so cliché—but it’s true: the Earth abruptly ceases spinning and Shinsou is nearly flung into the atmosphere because Aizawa has reached out to press his hand against Shinsou’s forehead, before placing said hand onto his shoulder and keeping Shinsou from flying directly into the sun.
“Are you feeling alright, Shinsou?” Aizawa asks, actual worry permeating through his words.
It’s hardly the first time Aizawa has touched him, really. Being the responsible adult that he is, Aizawa is always sure to patch Shinsou up after being the one to give the boy a split lip during training. Methodical and attentive, and worryingly effective at putting Shinsou at ease because Aizawa effortlessly knew how to scale the walls Shinsou had enclosed himself in. Walls made of razor blades and shards of glass and whatever else is sharp and pointy and decidedly very unpleasant.
(Now if Aizawa could employ whatever the fuck kind of magic Mic-sensei does when he ruffles Shinsou’s hair—)
It’s as if Shinsou has a mouthful of honey as he attempts to wrestle with his tongue. It’s embarrassing, and maybe even a little (well, a lot) shameful that he’s come to allow—is powerless against—the likes of Aizawa and Mic-sensei becoming actual anchors in his life. A weight upon his shoulders that he foolishly hopes could mean something.
Like he’s baring his throat to a snarling beast, unknowing if he’ll be granted mercy or have his throat ripped out.
“Uh, my head hurts a little.” Shinsou manages to mumble, unable to look away from Aizawa’s examining stare. The ache present at the right side of his head is tolerable and hardly an issue. It doesn’t need to be mentioned to waste Aizawa’s time with. But. Aizawa always had the uncanny ability to get Shinsou to lower his guard.
Aizawa’s eyes flash, not too dissimilar to when he activates his quirk, something sharp gleaming across his irises.
“Are you injured?” Aizawa asks, gently carding his hand through Shinsou’s hair as he checks for bumps along the boy’s scalp. “Where does it hurt?”
Shinsou dazedly points to his right temple, prompting Aizawa to tilt his head to get a better view. “It feels better now.” He isn’t sure if he’s trying to reassure Aizawa or himself.
“What happened?”
Like swallowing a mass of rocks. “I think my bag was stolen.”
It’s honestly frightening the look that befalls Aizawa, something so at odds with the typically stoic man that it’s almost mystifying: an expression of open dismay contorts Aizawa’s face.
“When? As you were walking to school?” Aizawa sets both his hands on Shinsou’s shoulders and hisses urgently: “Shinsou, were you mugged?”
“P-Possibly?” Shinsou squeaks, feeling heat rise up his neck and paint his ears red. He raises a hand to rub at his nape and Aizawa’s stare becomes too unwieldy. Shinsou averts his gaze to stare at the floor and then to the walls, finding little relief in the fact the hallway appears empty. “I-I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I…”
Shinsou gestures vaguely as indecision makes cotton form in his mouth. It's a bitter taste that wells between his teeth that he must either swallow or spit out, confessing a shame that he doesn’t know will have him sink or swim.
Shinsou internally cringes. “I… may have woken up on a park bench this morning?”
He peeks a glance at his mentor. Aizawa stares at him. He shouldn’t have said that. Why did he say that?
“I still have my phone and school ID, though.” Shinsou quickly tacks on mindlessly, attempting to fruitlessly conserve some of his dignity, like trying to build a sandcastle with a tsunami rising in the distance.
Shinsou becomes aware that his heart is drumming faster than usual, reverberating against his ribcage and trying very hard to set his body to tremble.
A Pro Hero and a teacher of UA—would Aizawa do anything now that he is aware of this little disgrace? Could he do anything? Pry further, poke at open wounds and force Shinsou to concede as if he’s strapped to the electric chair, having the boy detail just how much of a, of a lowlife he is.
The bell rings. Classroom doors shut with the finality of a death knell. Great, Shinsou’s made Aizawa late, so useless—
“Hitoshi,” Aizawa bristles and the man does not smack Shinsou upside the head but it’s a near thing, so thrown by hearing his given name exiting Aizawa’s mouth he nearly doesn’t compute the rest of the man’s words. “You were assaulted as you were walking to school, knocked out and had your bag stolen, and you didn’t think to call the police? An ambulance? Myself or Hizashi?”
Aizawa called me Hitoshi—Wait, Who?
Hizashi, as in Yamada Hizashi? Present Mic? Mic-sensei? Has Aizawa decided to be on a first name basis with everyone suddenly?
Shinsou’s mind quickly flashes memories of the two men; of Mic-sensei enthusiastically slinging an arm across Aizawa’s shoulders and bringing the other man close while his mentor allows the touch. Of Aizawa wordlessly snatching Mic-sensei’s glasses off his nose and cleaning the lenses, how Aizawa even has lens wipes on his person despite not wearing glasses. Of both men sharing easy, effortless banter and a sense of familiarity that could’ve only been cultivated after years of an intimacy so casual it’s become second nature to them both.
Friends, definitely, Shinsou had already deduced as much. Best friends? …Highschool sweethearts?
“I had to get to school,” Shinsou manages, blinking dazedly at the man and attempting to silence his brain’s sudden attempt to overanalyze every interaction between Aizawa and Mic-sensei that he’s been privy to. “I-I’m sorry, Sensei.”
“You’re going to give Hizashi a heart attack. He’s never going to let you walk alone to school again, or go anywhere by yourself. Are you injured anywhere else?” Aizawa tightens his grip on Shinsou’s shoulders; not enough to bruise, but as though he needs to reassure himself Shinsou isn’t going to fall through the floor. Shinsou shakes his head in response to his question, and Aizawa continues. “I’m taking you to Recovery Girl. Are you alright with walking?” A nod. “Good, let’s get a move on.”
Does… does Mic-sensei talk about him, with Aizawa? Off school grounds, beyond school hours? There was one time when Shinsou aced an English quiz and was declared Mic-sensei’s ‘favourite listener,’ but Shinsou had assumed that to be hyperbolic. Is this what being a mainstream Hero does to a person, that Mic-sensei is apparently so… invested in the random student his friend/coworker/best friend has decided to personally mentor?
They march onwards, Aizawa by his side with a hand still gripping his shoulder and Shinsou moves as if in a trance. Aizawa hasn’t even said anything about being late. Shinsou is perfectly able to walk to the nurse himself and yet here the man is, actively neglecting his duties as the homeroom teacher of Heroics to instead play chaperon.
“Did you recognize your attackers?” Aizawa asks, eyes flashing and squinting dangerously. “Were they students?”
It can’t be that obvious. It can’t be. Because if it was so crystal clear that there are students that hold Shinsou in enough open disdain to throw rocks at him and jeer that his death would be celebrated, that even Iida for some reason recognized it, then why wasn’t anything done—could they not—is Shinsou expected to grin and bear it? Is it part of Hero training?
(Shinsou is not—useless. He can prove it. He is not hopeless and he refuses to waste Aizawa’s time.)
Shinsou shrugs, because he’s well adapted in shaking off the mild annoyances (and they’re only ever that) of boorish schoolmates and he doesn’t need the pity of others.
“No…I don’t remember, Sensei…” his gut twists on itself into a knot at the continued muddiness of his memory. “I’m sorry I lost my bag—”
“I don't care about the bag. I care about you, Hitoshi. The bag can be replaced, you can't.”
Shinsou might actually throw up. Because Aizawa’s words, wrapped in such clear conviction, feels like a bull that weighs the same as a car and wielding precariously sharp horns has rammed directly into his stomach at the speed of a bullet train.
“And you better not be downplaying any possible injuries. You're already in for a long, excruciating lecture on how head injuries need immediate attention. Why didn't you call? Or even text?” Aizawa drags a hand down his face and Shinsou feels his shoulders hunch in response. “Nevermind—we'll talk about that later. What matters right now is that you're safe. What do you last remember?”
This treads dangerous territory. Because Shinsou knows that whatever had happened, involved the home in some way, concerned a house-parent or two, and would definitely paint very clearly, too clearly, that Shinsou is…
‘Problematic’ would be the nice way of putting it. ‘A burden’ is perhaps more accurate.
“Uh, I woke up in the park. Before that…” Shinsou licks his lips, finding them suddenly dry. “... I think there was an argument. I guess I forgot to do my chores…”
He winces. Shame courses through his veins in place of his blood.
Aizawa pauses in his step to regard Shinsou in—open confusion, which Shinsou automatically assumes he must be misreading as he halts likewise beside his mentor.
“Do you remember who you were arguing with?” Aizawa asks, his brows pinched.
Shinsou shrugs on instinct as he averts his gaze downwards to the floor. He thinks of the schoolmates who hold competitions amongst themselves of who can conjure the most disparaging set of remarks regarding Shinsou’s appearance, his quirk, his intelligence, his character and his status as a child living in residential care as if blithely commenting on the weather. He thinks of how it appears that the likes of Aizawa have some level of awareness regarding such badgering (that sounds much nicer than ‘harassment’), and how only when he is inconvenienced that he has said anything about it.
“I was being disrespectful.” Shinsou mutters to the floor. Distantly, he muses how if anyone were to witness this scene, it would appear as if a teacher is currently scolding a student.
“That doesn't answer my question. Who?”
“I'm not sure. It… it may have been Tachibana-san?” The name escapes his lips against his will, and he rubs the back of his neck; his palms have grown sweaty.
The heart is not a rational organ. With each beat, a rattling reverberates against his ribcage, echoing against the cavernous void of where the organ precariously sits. Weak, and swept alongside the disgrace that has long since taken root that it is synonymous with his very sinew, something small still attempts to feebly sprout. An uncertain sensation of what might be considered hope hatches from his heart like a cracking egg.
Maybe the man has no interest in the asinine ribbings of children, he doesn’t get paid enough for that most assuredly, but—
As Eraserhead, Pro Hero, could he care about the life Shinsou lives behind the closed doors of a children’s home? Of the shouting and backhands and how Shinsou wishes he could be small enough to disappear forever, always lamenting at the fact the world could not be kind enough to have had him smothered as an infant? Would Eraserhead bother himself with such things?
Still, though. “I was being difficult, I know I was, she's not a bad person, Sensei, not even short-tempered. I got myself in trouble.”
Pause.
“Tachibana-san.” Aizawa enunciates slowly. “One of the caretakers of the children's home.”
Shinsou dares peek at the man, building courage to meet his gaze because Aizawa deserves as much. His mentor wears something bemused, brows furrowed and a mouth turned downward—ice coalesces inside Shinsou’s ribcage.
“Yes, Sensei.” Shinsou retreats; his voice turns monotone.
Right. An accusation without evidence is probably some level of illegal. He should know that.
“Hitoshi.” Aizawa’s hands cup both of Shinsou’s shoulders. “Where do you live?”
Well, that’s not—what?
Aizawa is very well aware of where Shinsou lives. He literally just mentioned it hardly a second ago. He has always waited with Shinsou for his train after their training. He’s always said ‘guardians’ as opposed to ‘parents.’
Shinsou instinctually scans the surrounding area for any unwelcome busybodies. Mockery of his living situation has not yet escalated to its greatest potential because it is still mostly believed as just a rumour, and Shinsou will not willingly help it to become public knowledge like he’s been put in the pillory in the middle of a town square.
A petulant mumble exits him. “You know where, Sensei.”
“I need you to answer me, Hitoshi. Please.”
Aizawa squeezes his shoulders, a reassurance or a threat Shinsou cannot discern between, and it’s the undercurrent of what is bizarrely some sort of desperation lining Aizawa’s features that Shinsou decides against letting the silence linger.
Shinsou brings his arms upwards to fold them across his chest, averting his gaze once more. “... Rusan Children’s Home.” He says lowly, as if confessing to a crime.
There’s a sharp intake of breath.
Then: Shinsou’s lungs expand to twice their size with the amount of air he inhales as suddenly his world tilts sideways. His feet leave the floor in a swiftness so great he becomes dizzy.
“S-sensei!” comes a squeak that definitely doesn’t belong to Shinsou, his survival instincts prompting him to cling onto the man like a spidermonkey because Aizawa has lifted Shinsou into his arms.
Aizawa takes off into a sprint in the direction of Recovery Girl as if Shinsou weighs nothing, and Shinsou can do nothing else but hold on.
Very quickly, does Shinsou become aware that there is a worry that large swaths of his memory are missing. Aizawa carries a cloud of unease over his head throughout Shinsou’s spontaneous medical checkup, and the teen finds himself sunken into a daze like he’s stepped into quicksand.
Maybe that’s some sort of latent survival instinct, that Recovery Girl’s examination and subsequent verdict that there’s little she can personally do since there’s technically no active injury present, all merge together like he’s looking through frosted glass. Personally, it seems counterproductive that his brain has decided to further obfuscate his memory that is (apparently) already mangled into patchworks by having his eyes glaze over, but Shinsou has also never admitted to having an actual working inclination towards self preservation.
He thinks he tunes out at the mention of visiting a neurologist. Aizawa, having seemingly glued himself to Shinsou’s hip throughout, withdraws after giving the boy’s shoulder a steadying squeeze and a promise of ‘it’s going to be alright, we’ll see this through,’ words melded with a determination so palpable Shinsou could almost believe it. The man imparts after stating the need to call in a sub for his class and to convene with Hizashi—Mic-sensei—before leaving Shinsou with a sympathetic Recovery Girl who pats his knee.
But his awareness returns in bone breaking clarity when through the curtains separating each cot walks in Principal Nezu-san nonchalantly. Shinsou automatically straightens from where he’s sitting on the bunk as the man—does he call Nezu-san ‘man?’ Animal?—waltzes inwards with Aizawa trailing in behind like a shadow. Recovery Girl soon bows and waddles out, poking Shinsou’s leg with her cane to order him that he needs to rest.
Aizawa’s dark cloud has seemingly swelled into a polar vortex. The lines of disquiet have since smoothed out of his face and are now replaced with a more typical starkness. The return to such familiar ground should be an all encompassing relief, but Aizawa’s eyes glint with something frigid, his gaze immediately setting the hairs on the back of Shinsou’s neck to rise.
Shinsou quickly looks away.
“Good morning Shinsou-kun!” Nezu-san chirps, raising a hand (paw?) in his direction. “I understand you haven’t had the most pleasant morning. Rest assured: as the principal of this school, you have my word that everything will be put back in working order. I was told you still have your student ID, yes? If you could be so kind as to hand it over for a moment? Thank you.”
Nezu-san smiles, which Shinsou suspects is simply how his mouth is set as and therefore it is actually physically impossible for the Principal to change his expression, as he inspects Shinsou’s ID. The rat/cat/dog/bear (Shinsou still contests that the Principal is an amalgamation of all four) twirls the ID in his claws/fingers, examining and re-examining, his scrutiny thorough and… quickly developing into completely excessive.
Nezu-san lifts the ID to view it against the lights overhead. He sniffs it. He gives it a tentative… bite at the corner.
Shinsou stares in bewilderment. He looks at Aizawa in hopes of garnering some sort of explanation but he only receives a dispassionate, unblinking stare in return. Shinsou has to clench his fists on his lap so as to not fiddle with his hands.
Nezu-san hums. “I dare say this appears to be a genuine ID, Eraser. I was expecting a particularly convincing counterfeit, truth be told! I'm impressed.” Nezu-san’s smile widens, causing his eyes to squint beadily at Shinsou. “Where did you get this?”
Counterfeit—?
That’s probably an expulsion worthy infraction, or at least dealt with suspension and an ugly mark staining his record. Which Shinsou has to remind himself cannot, and will not, happen because he’s not in the business of dealing with fake IDs, let alone his own.
“I was assigned it, sir… ?” Shinsou feels as though he stands perilously near a cliff’s edge as he darts his gaze between Nezu-san and Aizawa. “Like everyone else?”
Nezu-san tilts his head, the eyes of both mentor and Principal never leaving Shinsou. “Eraser?”
On cue, Aizawa’s irises flash crimson with his hair floating upwards like an updraft of smoke.
No chills accost Shinsou’s body nor it is felt like he was physically struck, under Aizawa’s quirk nothing feels out of place even as Brainwash is made forcefully dormant. But Shinsou flinches regardless.
Shinsou blinks helplessly at the man, shoulders hunched and voice clogged in his throat as Aizawa’s eyes narrow in open displeasure. No—it’s unmasked fury that fractures across Aizawa’s face and sets his jaw to clench.
Shinsou suddenly feels very, very small.
“Ah, so you do not possess the shapeshifting quirk; working with a compatriot or two?” Nezu-san says conversationally, tapping his chin and pocketing Shinsou’s ID. “Well, this is getting more and more exciting!”
Aizawa speaks next, choosing to keep his glare unbroken and glowing red. “Who are you with, kid? If you're a student, you can expect expulsion for this little stunt if you don't drop the charade right now. So I suggest you stop wasting our time.”
His voice is laced with such venom that Shinsou’s body feels like it’s actively desiccating, drying out and turning into a husk of its former self wherein it’s not even enough for vultures to pick at.
“And if you're not a student, well.” Aizawa continues, mouth twisting into a grin that’s as inhospitable as the desert. “Let’s not go there just yet.”
Shinsou’s brain has been turned into pulp and no coherent thought can be found, so he can only warble out: “W-What?”
“Why target Shinsou Hitoshi?” Nezu-san asks, sounding genuinely curious. “And moreover, why take his form but neglect to… remove him from the equation?” Aizawa’s eye twitches. “Playing imposter is much easier to pull off if you don’t have your victim still walking about, especially where it would be immediately noticed. Just a helpful tip!”
Nezu-san is definitely a sadist, Shinsou is confident in asserting as much in the growing hysteria bubbling within himself. Why else would the Principal still hold a pleasant smile and speak so casually when the words he conveys feels as though Shinsou is being repeatedly clubbed over the head?
“What?” His desperation is whittling his voice into something embarrassingly high pitched.
“Think long and hard how you want the rest of your day to go. You’ve already been caught, playing dumb will not help you.” Aizawa finally blinks, his hair falling across his shoulders and eyes returning to cool black. “Trust me, you don’t want this to get any worse than it already is for you.”
Shinsou knows he’s gaping like a beached fish and he hates it. “S-sensei,” he stammers. “It's me, Shinsou Hitoshi, you, you have my ID!”
Does he need to recite his entire life story? Give them his birth certificate or the home’s paperwork concerning him? The complete one-eighty on Aizawa has superseded whiplash and is instead squarely in the broken neck territory with how sudden it was. The fretting the man had done prior, powered by a very real concern that bled openly through his expression and body language, had been—uncanny, definitely, wholly unexpected but, but, but… it had been… it was…
(A refuge, a shelter Shinsou is equal parts terrified and desirous of, somewhere he could convince himself as safe enough to weather out the storm.)
Shinsou comes to the despairing realization that he would give anything, from his teeth to his quirk to his still beating heart, to have the ire painting Aizawa’s face to wash away and return to that concern. For the man to murmur ‘it’s going to be alright, we’ll see this through,’ over and over, with large calloused hands squeezing his shoulders.
“I, I can prove it, let me use my quirk!”
And that should be it, shouldn’t it? Undeniable proof that he is who he says he is and that the—other Shinsou is someone who’s stolen his face. Someone has stolen his face. There’s a person masquerading as him and the realization of such has only just now pieced itself together in understanding, and, why is there someone with his face?
But the idea of an imposter becomes inconsequential, because Aizawa’s frown deepens on its way to a scowl in response to Shinsou mentioning Brainwash and it inspires thoughts of finding the nearest hole to curl up and die in.
(Not Aizawa, please, he—Shinsou doesn’t know what he’ll do if Aizawa joins the ranks of those who hold him and his quirk with open contempt.)
The tip of Nezu-san’s tail wiggles slowly back and forth like that of an interested cat. “It is intriguing that you even smell like Shinsou-kun.”
Shinsou is almost thankful for the unexpected comment, because it draws Aizawa’s attention away from him and towards the Principal instead. Aizawa delivers Nezu-san a sideways look of pure exasperation.
“Well!” Nezu-san cheerily states, clapping his paws together. “Let us take this to my office, yes? It appears there are some comparisons that need to be done!”
There have been many unfortunate moments in Shinsou’s life that can be delegated as ‘worst thing to have ever happened to him.’ Many a proud candidate vye for the title in either the forms of repressed memories or the too clear recollections that cause his body to tremble uncontrollably; but being escorted to the Principal’s office while bound in an inescapable cocoon made of Aizawa’s binding cloth and towed through the hallways is definitely the worst.
The inescapable, dull ticking of the clock is slowly eroding Shinsou’s will to live, like the countdown of a time-bomb strapped on his neck.
Shinsou sits on a cushioned chair across from Nezu-san, who bustles on his table—literally on his table, as in he is standing on it—as he busies with a kettle and sets a pair of mugs.
Beside Shinsou sits an empty chair, one that feels especially foreboding as Aizawa stands as a silent spectre near the door behind the teen. At the very (very) least, Shinsou is not tied to the chair and has been completely released from Aizawa’s binding cloth; not even his hands are bound together, free to fiddle in his lap as Shinsou attempts to redirect the burgeoning buzz of his miserable anxiety wishing to suffocate him. Small mercies.
Nezu-san gestures to the mugs. “Care for some tea? I have peppermint, chamomile and lavender to choose from, all of which are known for their sedative properties which I think you could benefit from. Why, I can hear your heartbeat rattling from here!”
The Principal is some part rat, that much is for certain, and rats are a species known to indulge in infanticide so that must be why Nezu-san delivers his words so pleasantly, despite it feeling as though Shinsou stands at trial.
Shinsou responds in monotone, his face equally as blank. “Chamomile would be fine. Thank you, sir.”
The tea is warm when cradled in his palms. As Shinsou quietly sips and keeps his gaze downward, does knocking sound from the door.
Wordlessly Aizawa lets their new visitor in, and Shinsou dutifully watches how the light reflects off the surface of his tea.
“Our favourite listener has arriiiived!” Mic-sensei sings exuberantly. “Morning Eraser, Principal, where’s the little con-artist?”
Shinsou’s shoulders hunch automatically. Mic-sensei is a man who clearly enjoys employing many a nickname as a way to display his version of affection. All clearly evident from his many ‘little listeners;’ the memorable occasion Aizawa became ‘Sleeping Beauty’ when Mic-sensei roused the man from his sleeping bag; how, one time, he had referred to Shinsou as ‘mini-Eraserhead’ far too casually despite it flaring the teen’s cheeks into something resembling a tomato.
But to be referred to as a ‘con-artist,’ even just as a wisecrack, makes Shinsou feel awash in filth, like he took a dive in a rotting carcass. Because he knows that under the veneer of humour, Mic-sensei believes it. That Shinsou is a liar.
Shinsou doesn’t turn his head to look at the man nor does he rise from his seat to bow in greeting, instead opting to continue sitting as he stares despondently into his tea. A feeble and hopeless attempt to protect himself and prolong the inevitable.
The English teacher enters his periphery regardless. Shinsou gives the man a sideways glance.
(If he’s small enough he won’t be perceived as a threat, if he’s unobtrusive enough he’ll be ignored, if he’s quiet enough nothing can hurt him.)
Mic-sensei releases a long, low whistle as a brow climbs to his hairline. “I knew there was some samplin’ happenin’, but dang, we got ourselves a full on dupe!”
“Is now the time someone finally explains what’s going on? Please?”
That causes Shinsou to blink dumbly at nothing. Because—
Because that… voice, spoken with the twinge of exasperation lining his flat delivery, is the voice that belongs to Shinsou, and it hadn’t exited his mouth.
As if pulled on a string, Shinsou’s body turns on its own accord to openly stare at the student who trailed in after Mic-sensei. Purple hair, dark eyebags, pale skin; lavender eyes meet his own.
Obviously, Shinsou was already aware of the… doppelgänger. But to see himself in third-person and without the aid of a mirror because there’s someone else with his body, is not something he thinks any amount of knowledge beforehand could have prepared him for. Shinsou is staring at Shinsou. A whole other Shinsou. And he’s not even actively dissociating.
Well, at least the other Shinsou appears equally as stunned. The clock continues to tick for an eternity.
“Huh,” is all either Shinsou can utter, both done at the same time.
Nezu-san’s grin stretches wider.
Maybe he should’ve skipped school today. Perfect attendance be damned, waking up on a park bench should have been an omen he heeded, because sitting next to his clone in the Principal’s office with the combined pressure of three (3!) separate authority figures he respects staring at him is going to make him implode.
Mic-sensei leans against the corner of Nezu-san’s desk while Aizawa stands impassively next to the blond. Pertinently, both teachers are congregated to the side of the room where the look-alike is seated, a wordless proclamation that they’ve already made their choice. That the other Shinsou is who they choose.
The tea still set in Shinsou’s lap does little to soothe the cavernous ache that has since fissured, splitting his body into multiple pieces. He stares at the dark wood of the desk, mindlessly tracing the images present in the grain.
At least his mimic has the decency to likewise look ahead instead of gawk, his gaze directed at Nezu-san who sits at the edge of his desk, swinging his dangling legs contently. Shinsou idly wonders if the choice of possessing human sized furniture for a man/animal that barely reaches the teen’s knee in height was deliberate, in order to give occupants a false sense of security. Making the Principal appear small and harmless even as his beady little gaze makes Shinsou feel as though he’s about to be the subject of a vivisection.
Nezu-san tilts his head as he surveys both Shinsous. S. Plural. Ugh.
“Are we about to discover that Shinsou-kun was secretly an identical twin this entire time, separated at birth?” The Principal decides to start with, nursing his own (oversized) mug of tea on his lap.
“This isn’t the time for jokes.” Aizawa scowls, folding his arms.
Mic-sensei lightly nudges Aizawa’s shin with his foot. “C’mon, it was a little funny.”
Nezu-san fixes his sights on Shinsou. “As we have ruled out a shapeshifting or cloning mishap, there is no use dawdling. Young Shinsou-kun on my left, what is the date?”
Shinsou takes an indulgent sip of his tea, probing at the resulting silence that hangs like a dense fog, before answering.
Nezu-san nods, and Shinsou tries to find comfort in the fact that the date is at least correct. “What department are you enrolled in?” The Principal asks.
“1-C, General Education. Sir.”
“And what is your relationship with Eraserhead?”
Pause. Shinsou resolutely doesn’t steal a glance at the man in question, Aizawa appearing as a dark smear in his periphery.
A mentor, officially. An idol, that Shinsou could never admit aloud. Maybe, perhaps, even a little bit of a saviour, in the deep, dark recesses of Shinsou’s shame. An unhealthy attachment, he’s sure many a therapist would describe.
(‘Hitoshi,’ Aizawa had said, and Shinsou’s name was not born of scorn in the man’s mouth, the memory of such could make the teen’s heart rupture from his chest.)
“Aizawa-sensei offers me after school training, three times a week. I…” Shinsou shifts in his seat, declaring his ambitions suddenly much more cumbersome in this room than it was in front of an overcrowded hallway and the entirety of 1-A. “… want to transfer into Heroics. Aizawa-sensei approached me after the Sports Festival and told me that I had potential, but that I relied too much on my quirk and that my physical abilities were poor.”
The recollection almost gets a snort out of Shinsou. He releases a hand from the mug he still cradles to rub the back of his neck as he continues.
“Well, he said that I throw a punch like a preschooler and that my quirk was underdeveloped, but also said that if I was put on a meal and exercise plan I could be considered for a Heroics transfer. So long as I could prove that I was serious, by accepting his mentorship and not quitting.”
He also feeds me after training and offers to help with my homework, but Nezu-san doesn’t need to know the specifics.
“Lovely.” Nezu-san is definitely enjoying himself. “And what of Present Mic, who is he to you?”
“Mic-sensei is my English teacher.”
A nice, neat little fact. Easy to deliver.
(But that’s lacking, isn’t it—
Because Mic-sensei, by virtue of being Aizawa’s friend/colleague/best friend, has—for better or for worse—identified himself as an adult Shinsou could maybe, perhaps, trust. That when the man ruffles Shinsou’s hair, it can be… appreciated, because therein lies no ulterior motives. That when the man greets him in the gym alongside Aizawa for training, he can be assured that the blond isn’t there to sabotage him. That one day, Shinsou could eventually feel comfortable enough referring to the man as merely Yamada.)
“He… was also kind enough to join Aizawa-sensei in training me.” Shinsou continues. “He said he’s going to teach me how to do his Record Spin Roundhouse Kick.”
And how to perform his patented DJ Punch, at that. Mic-sensei’s extravagant updo is distracting in the edges of his vision and while Shinsou’s focus is (mostly) set on Nezu-san, he can still feel the grin directed at him sent by the English teacher.
(Noticeably, Other Hitoshi—capital ‘Other,’ since Shinsou gathers he should give the guy some sort of consistent identifier, since no adult in the room appears to be willing to entertain the title of ‘imposter’—has since turned his head to openly stare at Shinsou. Shinsou does not disparage him; it is taking a considerable amount of effort to not do the same.)
Nezu-san’s smile never leaves him. “Where do you live, Shinsou-kun?”
Another indulgent sip of his tea. Face expertly expressionless with his voice equally as lifeless, and a corpse sits in place of his body.
“Rusan Children’s Home. Sir.”
A shifting of purple hair is what spurns Shinsou to turn his gaze towards the Other Hitoshi seated to his left. His mirror image exchanges what appears to be looks of surprise with both Aizawa and Mic-sensei.
The nail in the proverbial coffin, surely. Because anyone committed enough to steal his face would know. They’d have feasted upon the rumours circulating that Shinsou’s parents abandoned him on the side of the road, that his parents beat him like a ragdoll all black and blue, that his parents threw him away like trash; they would fully devote themselves in wearing his skin, they wouldn’t act surprised at the confirmation.
But instead: Mic-sensei’s prior grin has faded into a frown, brows pinched with Aizawa peering at Shinsou through the disheveled curtain of his fringe.
Shinsou quickly turns back to Nezu-san, whose eyes are currently sparkling.
“You mentioned the Sports Festival. How far did you get?” The Principal asks.
A wince breaks through his expression before he can stop it. “I was beaten in the first round of the final event.”
“Considering the One-on-One is typically reserved only for students in Heroics, I would say that’s still an achievement. Wouldn’t you agree, Eraserhead?” Nezu-san chuckles, voice turning wistful. “Well, I suppose you would, as you were impressed enough to take Shinsou-kun as your protégé. It would appear there are some things that are simply fated to occur, no matter the timeline.”
And Shinsou can’t stop himself, he turns to look at Aizawa and Mic-sensei in a wordless and helpless request for clarity. Perhaps predictably, he sees Other Hitoshi do the same.
“As the saying goes: ‘The more things change, the more things stay the same.’” Nezu-san continues happily, as if imparting some particularly groundbreaking wisdom.
Aizawa rubs a hand down his face. “Just spit it out, Nezu.”
“Sir…” Mic-sensei starts carefully. “Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? That they’re both Shinsou Hitoshi, and not in the sense that he’s—“ he gestures to Other Hitoshi “—the original and he’s—“ he points to Shinsou “—the remix, but instead they’re both unedited master copies?”
Aizawa is giving Mic-sensei a long suffering expression. “Say that again, except this time not like an idiot.”
“Come now, isn’t it obvious?” Nezu-san interjects, waving a paw in Shinsou’s direction as he casually takes a sip of his tea. “This boy comes from an alternate reality. A reality in which he never became your son.”
Spoken so nonchalantly. As if the words haven’t completely pulverized every hope Shinsou had for ever having cohesive thought ever again, like he’s been made into a red smear by a steam roller.
The air of the room has been promptly sucked out of the room, with his lungs having been forcefully emptied likewise, as Shinsou is thrusted into a daze so suddenly he experiences vertigo from where he sits.
“I assume we are all aware of the multiverse theory and no explanation is needed?” Nezu-san very unhelpfully adds.
Shinsou downs the rest of his tea, wishing it was horse tranquilizer instead.
Maybe this is the best case scenario, all things considered.
Dimension travel is a surprisingly easy thing to accept. It settles in his bones like rods of lead and weighs him down to the center of the Earth. There are worse things, he tells himself. Such as the thought of Other Hitoshi having been an actual imposter who had managed to swindle everyone against him in a single morning. Jumping realities is an infinitely easier pill to swallow.
Shinsou keeps his mind distant. Kept in a fog. That way, he doesn't have to fully detangle and fathom Nezu-san’s proclamation. That Other Hitoshi is…
Whatever. Anyway. Currently in another dimension. Focus on the now.
Speaking of:
“—Kid, you in there? Blink if you can hear me.”
And Shinsou does: blink, that is, multiple times over as he attempts to piece together the wayward debris of his consciousness. Aizawa is closer now, kneeled in front of the teen and wholly inescapable.
“Sorry.” Shinsou finds his voice, dry just as his mouth is. “I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”
Aizawa huffs. “You get points for honesty.”
Well that’s a definite perk of this whole debacle, Shinsou thinks idly, that Aizawa hasn’t given him an annoyed look before scolding him for being inattentive and therefore disrespectful. Dimensional fuckery begets leniency, Shinsou can work with that.
Aizawa adopts a serious expression and continues. “We’re here to help you, alright? No one here is expecting you to be okay right now. But we’ll get through this. You’re safe here.”
Mic-sensei enters the scene as he saddles next to Aizawa, smiling brightly. “Yeah, talk about force majeure! But we’ve got your back, kiddo. We’ll figure this all out and you’ll be back on key before you know it. Take aaall the time you need, little listener, and if that means having a good cry in the bathroom, there’s no judgement here. That’s what I’d be doing if I was in your shoes!”
It’s meant to get a reaction, some sort of chuckle or giggle, with Mic-sensei attempting to ease through the blank, dead look Shinsou has on.
And it works, is the thing. Shinsou blames it on the absolute absurdity of the situation that Mic-sensei is able to probe at a weakness. He releases a short, shallow exhale that could have morphed into snicker, but he manages to hold it at bay as he drops his head against the chair’s backrest. He admires the ceiling before turning his face to the side, peering at the seat next to him.
Other Hitoshi is still here and staring at him. Shinsou raises his eyebrows at his twin. “I really shouldn’t have woken up this morning, huh.”
And there’s more talking, after that. Many reassurances sent his way. Musings about the logistics of whatever this is. Keeping this situation on a strict need-to-know basis. Discussions that Other Hitoshi still needs to attend his classes. Shinsou stares at the ceiling throughout.
Nezu-san strides on his table with his paws clasped behind his back, the height he leverages meaning he is more at eye-level with the teachers he addresses. “Well, as you two are the de-facto experts on how to care for one Shinsou Hitoshi, surely a second shouldn’t be too burdensome to take on, at least for one night?” Still so cheery and very unbothered. “This is an unprecedented event. A learning experience for all involved!”
Oh yeah, dimension hopping is a breeze. Staying the night at Aizawa’s—and Mic-sensei’s?—place, with Other Hitoshi? Maybe it’s not too late to jump off the school’s roof.
Shinsou is unceremoniously holed up (or ‘safeguarded,’ in the rat’s words) in Nezu-san’s office for much of the school day. Aizawa, Mic-sensei and Other Hitoshi have all since vacated, leaving Shinsou alone with the beast, because dimension hopping is in fact just such a breeze, that they can still attend all their classes like nothing out of the ordinary happened.
Which—yeah. Okay, fine. There’s not much else that can be done at the moment, so that’s just the logical choice. Shinsou has migrated to Nezu-san’s plush and probably stupidly expensive couch, laying on the cushions with his arms crossed and mulling (not moping) over the situation.
The Principal, unwilling to grant Shinsou this moment of reprieve, is seated across Shinsou on the opposite couch. Giving further proof that Nezu-san’s face is just like that, since he’s still smiling at him
“And how are you feeling, Shinsou-kun?” Nezu-san asks after a moment, voice amicable.
This is the most interaction Shinsou has had with any Nezu-san of any reality, and the teen has deduced quite quickly that the Principal must think himself as the king of comedy.
“I’ve been better.” Shinsou drawls. “Sir.”
“Not sulking, then?”
Fuck’s sake. Is Shinsou not entitled to at least some respect in any universe?
Shinsou keeps his face and voice blank. “Should I be jumping in joy? I didn’t want to skip school this badly.”
“Ah, so you’re wallowing, then.”
Shinsou’s eye twitches. He makes the executive decision that checking his phone and surfing the web is a better use of his time. To investigate this reality further and discerning if any major historical event is suddenly different.
(In actuality: he’s feeding his virtual cats.)
“Is it safe to assume you have Aizawa’s number?” Nezu-san chimes in. “Your Aizawa, that is. Why not send him a message? It’s worth a shot.”
Fine. Shinsou can hardly argue the logic of that. He opens his contacts, completely bare save for the number of Rusan’s main line that only exists in case of emergencies and Aizawa. He selects the man’s contact; the only chat log that's used on his phone.
He skims over the last message shared between them: a photo Shinsou had sent of a cat he met during a walk to school. The image of which he could only send after having to convince himself he wouldn’t be annoying Aizawa with something so needless, an indecision that left him internally warring himself for almost a full minute before taking the chance and pressing send. He had instantly pocketed his phone afterwards and treaded onwards, the photo sent completely apropos nothing and with no accompanying text. Aizawa had responded with a simple ‘cute.’
Shinsou decides there isn’t any reason to beat around the bush as he texts:
[Shinsou]: sensei are you getting this msg
[Shinsou]: i may or may not be stuck in an alternate reality
[Shinsou]: ? can u call me pls?
[ERROR: Unable to send messages. Tap to retry]
He doesn’t know what he expected.
“It’s not sending.” Shinsou mutters to Nezu-san, tapping and re-tapping the messages and receiving the same error for his efforts. He brings his phone to his ear, listening to it ring before receiving an automated ‘Sorry, your call could not be connected at this time.’
“It won’t connect.” Shinsou lets his phone screen go dark.
“Hmm. Alas,” Nezu-san sighs. “I suppose that should’ve been expected. It would have been too much to ask that your phone be in fact a trans-dimensional communicator.”
Shinsou kills the urge to roll his eyes. Temporally displaced or not, Shinsou doesn’t endeavour to be needlessly disrespectful to the literal Principal.
Meanwhile, Nezu-san’s eyes gleam. “No need to look so glum. I’m sure you’ll find this experience to be very enlightening, young Shinsou-kun.” Why did that sound like a threat? “Care for more tea?”
Nezu-san gestures to the kettle and Shinsou decides he might as well try the lavender this time around.
“See if you can’t take a nap, Shinsou-kun. Rest would do you well. There are extra cushions and blankets should you need them.”
Nezu-san flexes his quirk because that is the smartest thing anyone could do in this situation, especially as the lunch that was sent up for Shinsou to gorge upon is settling nicely in his stomach and tempting him to drift into a coma.
Regrettably, however, Shinsou’s chronic eyebags are not a cosmetic choice, and are in fact a result of how sleep tends to elude him. His body is too high strung to settle on the couch, and he imagines it's less to do with being in an alternate reality and more with the fact that he is currently in the Principal’s office.
He tries, many times over, to shut his brain off and have the tide take him away. But like water escaping through his fingers, all he achieves is merely closing his eyes and nothing more.
A good time waster regardless, if anything.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Nezu-san comments after Shinsou readjusts himself on the couch again. Shinsou cracks an eye open at the Principal. “I know there are many humans who find sleep easier when listening to white noise. Would you like that?”
“Nah.” Shinsou responds, internally cringes, and then amends. “No thank you, Principal. I’ve never been very good at sleeping.”
Nezu-san sighs, tapping his chin. ”Shame, sleeping is usually how these sort of tropes resolve themselves.”
”What?”
”Never mind that.” Nezu-san waves a paw in the air. “Magnolia tea has been used as a natural sleep aid in many cultures for many centuries, would you like some?”
Shinsou pulls a cushion over his face, and he hears Nezu-san give a light chuckle.
Shinsou is listlessly staring at the ceiling when he asks. Or attempts to.
“Is…” he starts and quickly stutters to a halt, words clogged in his throat.
He glares at the ceiling, lying supine on the couch with hands clasped on his stomach and a tongue made useless in his mouth.
Nezu-san sits at his desk, tapping away on his laptop. “Is…?” The Principal coaxes, the sound of clicking keys ceasing as Shinsou feels the rat’s attention shifted to him.
Shinsou readjusts himself slightly. “Earlier, you said that—” he tries again. “That…”
The words die in his mouth as if Japanese has suddenly become a foreign language. Shinsou scrubs his face, and maybe if Nezu-san is feeling merciful he’ll pretend he never heard anything, but Shinsou should really know better by now.
“The day is still young, take as much time as you need, Shinsou-kun.”
Shinsou sighs. The ceiling stares back.
“Your… Shinsou,” he inwardly winces, because that's a phrase he never thought he’d need to utter. “Is he—you said that he’s Aizawa-sensei’s… ”
Nezu-san’s words repeat, have been repeating, on an endless loop. It exists as a sudden mountain that proves insurmountable, with jagged rocks that could render his body broken beyond repair. Three simple letters that make up one word and totally unspeakable.
He’s not sure he wants to think about it. But he hardly has a choice in the matter, like there’s hands squeezing his throat.
“Son?” Nezu-san finishes for him cheerily, easily breezing over Shinsou’s whirring disquiet. “Indeed. I imagine it must be quite a shock to you, since you’ve only met the man and his partner this year.”
A shock, yeah. Sure, they’ll go with that.
Shinsou lets out a long breath. “Partner?” He asks, focusing solely on that word instead, so he doesn’t have to ruminate on the other one, which echoes in the confines of his skull like the ringing of a fire alarm that's set directly against his ear.
“Yamada. It isn’t public knowledge but since you are to stay with them for the foreseeable future I don’t see the harm in telling you: the two of them are married.”
Ah. Oh.
Okay that—could make sense. Does make sense. They complement each other in practically every avenue; Aizawa is underground, Yamada is mainstream. Aizawa operates on rationality, Yamada's more emotionally attuned. Aizawa is reserved, Yamada is very, very loud. Aizawa has no care for his outward appearance, Yamada would rather jump in front of a train than be seen in public without his hair and moustache meticulously groomed.
Opposites attract. Yeah. Childhood friends. Maybe them being married was a foregone conclusion.
Shinsou stares dazedly at nothing. “… Married.” He eases the word in his mouth, rolling it over his tongue and savouring the taste.
“Oh yes, very sickeningly so, always smelling like one another.” Nezu-san continues casually. “Perhaps your Aizawa and Yamada are likewise. It would certainly be quite a conversation starter to ask.”
Shinsou mulls over the thought carefully, attentively examining it at all angles and envisioning in his mind’s eye the scenario wherein he asks the pair about their marital status suddenly and without warning. The resulting second-hand embarrassment that takes root in his gut at the possibility that—his Aizawa and Mic-sensei are simply friends with no desire to enter a relationship with the other, and Shinsou subsequently making a complete fool of himself by asking, makes the boy want to sink into the couch and disappear. It’s not his business. He’s not going to think about it. He can’t stop thinking about it.
“… Maybe.” He says into the quiet eventually.
The pause restarts but with it an air of expectancy now lingers. Nezu-san does not restart typing and instead patiently sits, and Shinsou—
As established, Shinsou’s a glutton for punishment, a masochist, because why else would he continue this line of thought when he knows it’ll result in nothing more than contorting him into something small and insignificant? Curiosity is a poison that seeks to mangle him beyond recognition, and Shinsou finds he is powerless to stop its flow.
“How long… has your Shinsou been…” their son, words unspoken and causing his tongue to crumble into ash. “… with them?”
“He was put into their care when he was eleven.” Nezu-san responds easily as Shinsou thinks his body is beginning to go numb. “An emergency placement, you see. Aizawa and Yamada had just completed the necessary work required to register as foster parents and it was decided, unanimously by the welfare office I’m told, that it would best for our young Shinsou to be placed in the capable hands of two Pro Heroes as opposed to a chronically understaffed and chronically undertrained children’s home. None of them had even formally or casually met each other before the boy was given to them.”
That is a very nice way of saying that he—Other Hitoshi was such an asinine problem that he was tossed (thrown) away at the nearest convenience.
But he can’t fault the logic. Shinsou tries to remember how he was at eleven years old. Eleven. Might as well be a lifetime ago. He knows he was (is) some misshapen amalgamation of despair and anger, vibrating between two extremes that swirled as a violent tempest in his too-small body; manifesting in either his throat automatically closing with his body forcing himself to keep quiet as to not give anyone any reason to even look at him, or snarling while punching a hole in the wall and purposefully Brainwashing others, consequences be damned.
And crying. Too much crying. Shinsou has since divided his life as either being ‘before being accepted to UA’ and ‘after being accepted to UA,’ (because that’s easier than splitting his life into ‘with mom and dad’ and ‘in Rusan’ ) with the former category being characterized as a confused patchwork of memories detailing being locked in a closet for hours long time-outs, the dizziness of food restrictions and the blistering of a belt across his back, rear-end and back of his thighs. And crying.
(And the rushing of water—nope, moving on.)
So much so Shinsou thinks he’s already exhausted all his tears and has become physically incapable of producing anymore, eyes now permanently stuck in a deadened gaze which further accentuates his face being… unsightly; but in itself almost a visual representation of how Shinsou has grown, no longer feeding into every childish whim to either cry needlessly or throw a tantrum. That he has since matured, like molting away the remnants of an old body, he’s not a baby anymore.
He can’t imagine Other Hitoshi was particularly pleasant to deal with. Not at eleven years old, being forced (again) to change homes and live with new adults he didn’t know, still a useless whiner that had yet to learn how to control the squall of his emotions. They’re the same person, Shinsou knows that Other Hitoshi spent his time either purposefully pushing boundaries or hiding under the bed and ruining whatever peace had previously existed in the Aizawa-Yamada (Yamazawa? Aida?) household.
Really, Other Hitoshi should count himself lucky he wasn’t strangled in his sleep. Because dealing with a multitude of brats constantly for work is thankless, add in having to wrangle a maladjusted reject at home as well? Yeah, no wonder it was done so that neither of them had ever met Other Hitoshi before they were given him, because if they had, they wouldn’t have made the mistake of opening their doors to him.
In, then out. He employs the deep breathing exercise Aizawa taught him. There isn’t a chance Nezu-san isn’t aware that Shinsou is manually attempting to soothe himself if he could hear the teen’s heartbeat, but the rat doesn't make a comment in what must be a rare moment of clemency.
The reprieve is short lived, as Nezu-san speaks once more. “Perhaps we are tackling the situation from the wrong angle.” While Shinsou is not looking at the Principal, he imagines Nezu-san tapping his chin. “Assuming this is all due to a quirk, why should we assume you were thrown into this reality at random? Perhaps, instead, the reason you were brought into this specific reality is tied directly to you: that you are being shown your deepest desire.”
Shinsou nearly chokes on his own spit.
His shoulders hunch automatically as his body stiffens and Shinsou keeps his gaze resolutely locked upon the ceiling, as to not gape incredulously at the Principal like a moron.
Nezu-san has the gall to speak so mildly. How can anyone, human or animal, speak so blasé when saying such abject—nonsense. Like smacking Shinsou over the head with a frying pan and then asking if he’s fine. No. No. Aizawa and Mic-sensei are his teachers, he can’t even entertain the mere thought.
That way leads to madness. He’s not thinking about it. He might throw up.
“Best to not let the opportunity pass you by, I would say. You could learn many valuable things while you are here, young Shinsou-kun, useful insights that shouldn’t be wasted.”
Shinsou huffs a breath. He crosses his arms across his chest to form a meager shield separating himself from the outside world as he turns inwards to hide his face into the couch, hearing the click-clack of Nezu-san’s laptop restarting.
Hah. They own a microvan. It’s kinda funny. Especially when Shinsou is herded into it like he’s being smuggled by a Mic-sensei dressed in civvies so inverse his Hero persona Shinsou didn’t even recognize him at first. All that’s needed to complete the picture is some tinted windows.
It’s comical in the sense that one would expect Present Mic to own a vehicle that would mirror his boisterous and outgoing personality, something unbearably ostentatious and with the same ability to deafen those around it—and not a vehicle that looks like a strong gust of wind could knock it over. Conversely, Shinsou knows there are students who believe that Aizawa traverses through the sewers in order to get to school. Aizawa-san wears a simple back v-neck shirt and grey sweatpants with pink slippers, whereas Yamada-san has decided to don colours for the both of them, a collage of warm tones as if he’s autumn made personified.
Shinsou stares at the cat bobbleheads that adorn the dashboard of the vehicle. There’s five of them up against the windshield. Black, calico, siamese, orange and tabby—and somehow Shinsou just knows they’re individually named as well. From the rearview mirror dangles a pendant of a very rotund cat. This is his dream car, actually.
Shame it’s made exceptionally awkward when he has to sit next to his Other Self in the backseat with Mic-sensei driving and Aizawa in the passenger seat. The whole moment does nothing but remind him at full force that he’s the literal alien in this situation, and therefore should probably be strapped to an examination table as a result. He pinpoints his focus on the beaded keychain of what appears to be a… cockatoo bearing its yellow crest dangling from the car keys as Yamada-san turns the ignition. How very on brand for Present Mic.
Ideally, Shinsou would immediately retreat into his mind and black out for the car ride, which he is reasonably sure Aizawa is currently doing as the man slumps in his seat, but he’s also literally seated next to an alternate universe version of himself.
Shinsou slowly turns his head to the side, wrenching his eyes from where he had been gazing at the passing scenery to instead look at Other Hitoshi. His mirror image is bent over his phone and scrolling, cheek cushioned in his palm with his elbow placed against the window and the picture of nonchalance. Unbothered despite who he sits next to, except for the fact Shinsou is well aware the guy has been casting covert glances his way, because Shinsou has been doing the same to him.
Other Hitoshi is preoccupied with his phone and Shinsou automatically assumes him to be playing pretend as to avoid any amount of socializing, because who the hell could Other Hitoshi possibly be texting, when Aizawa is literally in the car with him? It’s then that Shinsou is promptly reminded of this morning and a certain encounter with a certain Four-Eyes.
The poor fucker. Other Hitoshi could be in an actual group chat.
Noticing Shinsou is staring at him, Other Hitoshi looks up from his phone to meet his gaze. Staring at his own eyes that are in a separate body will never not be weird.
Shinsou squints at him. “Are you really friends with Iida?” He asks.
He hears an amused snort coming from Mic-sensei. Weirdly, as in very eerily, Other Hitoshi practically mirrors the action with his own huff of amusement.
Other Hitoshi shares his first words with Shinsou. “It wasn't by choice. I was sucked into his friend group against my will.”
Shinsou has the itching suspicion that was Midoriya’s fault, considering the twerp still waves at him when they cross paths no matter how many times Shinsou ignores him.
Shinsou feels the stirrings of Brainwash waking and detangling the threads of Other Hitoshi’s mind. His own mind. He can Brainwash himself. Weird. Everything is so weird.
Mic-sensei speaks next. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. It’s good to have friends, we’re a social species after all, whether you like it or not! Can’t go jiving through life solo.”
Other Hitoshi rolls his eyes theatrically, like this is a conversation they’ve had before. Considering Mic-sensei is clearly the token extrovert out of all of them, Shinsou surmises that Other Hitoshi wasn’t being entirely facetious when he said it wasn’t his choice; Mic-sensei would obviously have a vested interest in the social life of his—ward, warranted or otherwise, and while Shinsou could… quietly profess to (maybe) liking the man, there isn’t a doubt in his mind that the English teacher enjoys imposing. Shinsou would say ‘shoving his nose where it doesn’t belong,’ but if he’s Other Hitoshi’s—guardian, then that’s literally one of Mic-sensei’s government mandated responsibilities.
Probably dumped Other Hitoshi on Iida’s doorstep and told him not to come home until he’s shared at least five separate conversations with Four-Eyes. Present Mic would hardly want to be associated with an anti-social loner that people gleefully prophesy as becoming a serial killer. Mic-sensei has a reputation to maintain.
Shinsou isn’t in the business of making friends because he likes to think himself as not an idiot. He doesn’t acknowledge Midoriya’s existence because he has no interest in finding out what the guy who beat him on live national television could possibly still want from him. Not risking it.
Aizawa’s voice slurs, sounding suspiciously as though he’s just groggily awoken. “Out of all my idiots, Iida is definitely not the worst person to associate yourself with. Uraraka and him are both good influences.” A yawn. “Just wish you wouldn’t encourage Midoriya to break his fingers.”
Talk about a non sequitur, what.
“Quirk training.” Other Hitoshi says when Shinsou gives him a questioning look. “I Brainwash Midoriya and try to keep him under control as he attempts to break free. Which sometimes results in a broken finger or two.”
That’s how Midoriya did it? He can break his own bones on command? While Brainwashed?
No, stop that. Shinsou internally scolds himself virulently, do not think that’s badass, that’s not badass that’s fucking weird and annoying.
Aizawa slowly turns in his seat to fix his gaze at Other Hitoshi, ominously appearing as a zombie as he does so.
“Was that present tense?” Aizawa raises one dangerous eyebrow. “I guess I need my ears cleaned, because if you were implying that you’re still engaging in unauthorized and unsupervised training when you were explicitly told not to do so, you’ll be cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush.”
Mic-sensei, without taking his eyes off the road, reaches across to give Aizawa a consoling pat on the head, murmuring ‘pot, meet kettle’ as he does so. Aizawa spares him an annoyed glare that carries no real heat, eliciting a snicker from the blond. Married. They’re married. That’s a thing. Could be a thing, in his own reality? Whatever.
“Resulted in broken fingers.” Other Hitoshi amends, raising his hands in mock surrender. “It was his idea, not mine. Besides, Midoriya has a high pain tolerance.”
Aizawa pinches his nose. “It’s still broken bones, that could easily escalate into broken limbs because I know you two always want to one-up each other.” He releases a laborious sigh before pointing at Shinsou. “Don’t get any ideas, kid.”
That implies Shinsou would willingly subject himself to the likes of Midoriya. It was probably only by the grace of Other Hitoshi being Aizawa’s literal ward that he wasn’t outright expelled for goading Midoriya, 1-A’s little golden boy, into literally harming himself. And under Brainwash, no less. Aizawa definitely needed to pull some strings to ensure a scandal didn’t erupt, he’s sure of it. Cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush wasn't an empty threat.
Regardless, there is some logic to be had here.
Shinsou shrugs. “But wouldn’t you say it's logical to learn how to Brainwash someone who literally knows how to break out of it, Sensei?”
Midoriya, as in ‘his’ Midoriya, probably would agree to some quirk training. After all, Shinsou remembers well that one lunch period when the twerp had rushed out quickly in one breath that he thought Brainwash was useful and cool , nearly going blue in the face because apparently it was just that important to get the sentiment across when Shinsou shouldered past him. And he had the audacity to sound remarkably sincere when saying so. But Shinsou would still rather not find out what Midoriya would want in exchange. The guy has some sort of strength quirk and an affinity for breaking bones, whereas Shinsou enjoys the idea of keeping his own bones intact for the foreseeable future.
Even if the idea of building a work-around against the resistance of his victims—targets almost generates a sense of relief with him, since the knowledge that Broccoli-Head can break out of Brainwash still causes unease to pool in his gut uncomfortably.
“Then ask your Aizawa first, he’ll decide what’s best and listen to him.” Aizawa mutters as he rubs his face, looking a second away from hanging his head and promptly losing consciousness, before offhandedly waving his hand and slouching in his seat. “And I’m not your sensei. Call me Aizawa. Or Aizawa-san, if that’s more comfortable.”
“And that's the same with me, little listener.” Mic-sensei then chirps. “No ‘Mic-sensei’ is necessary. Just Yamada is fine, with or without the honorific.”
Shinsou blinks, a sudden uncertainty making the world tilt. “Sure.” He responds slowly, automatically bringing a hand upwards to rub the back of his neck as he turns his head to survey the passing buildings. “Uh, call me Shinsou? Or whatever you don't call him.” He gestures to Other Hitoshi.
“Bakugou calls me ‘Eggplant’ sometimes, we should use that.” Other Hitoshi supplies. Way too casually. Like that’s a completely normal thing to say.
Shinsou would honestly be impressed if Bakugou—his Bakugou—even knows he exists. First Iida (and apparently Uraraka by proxy), then Midoriya and now Bakugou? This must be the perks (or curse) of being under Aizawa-san’s guardianship. That students of 1-A are disturbingly familiar with him.
Before Shinsou can pry further into that line of thinking, they pull up into the underground parking of an apartment complex. It is noticeably closer to UA than his group home is, he can’t help but think, so he doesn’t have to dwell on the actual reality that he is about to enter the Aizawa-Yamada household.
It’s not a luxury penthouse seated above the clouds that he knows many an Internet detective speculates Present Mic on having, nor is it the janitor’s closet that plenty of students genuinely believe Aizawa to live in.
It’s an apartment. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. A spacious kitchen with an equally generous dining room that's all topped off with a living room that instantly tempts Shinsou to build a nest of blankets and hibernate. Populated with a number of houseplants that could be constituted as its own ecosystem. It’s—nice. What else can be said? It’s just nice, really nice, is what Shinsou concludes when shuffling inwards, after meticulously removing and aligning his shoes at the door for far longer than what was strictly necessary (he doesn't bother with the shoe cabinet, it almost feels wrong to, imposing), making himself the last to leave the sanctuary of the foyer. Warm and cozy, he may be tempted to say. Homely. Way too nice, actually.
Like wading through neck high waters, Shinsou trudges forth and is ready to have his head forced under, feeling very distinctly like an intruder. His body feels too gangly, like a knotted tree root that inconveniences everything and everyone to stumble over it, all twisted and gnarled and tantalizing to take an axe to.
The first thing he becomes aware of, seemingly unconsciously as it is his body that responds first with a quiet anxiety causing his shoulders to grow taut, is the lack of voices speaking over each other and competing for dominance. There is no clamoring of footsteps born of a stampede of restless children jockeying for the attention of a haggard adult. There is no bickering wafting through the air as children battle for the single gaming console that is meant to be shared. Pertinently, there is no spitball shot his way by Uzai-kun, a specific little runt who has been trying his damndest to get a reaction out of Shinsou since coming into the home six months ago.
Quiet. Even with Yamada-san and Aizawa-san lightly conversing with one another as they tread throughout their apartment, Other Hitoshi having taken a quick detour immediately towards a hall and presumably to… his room. That he is definitely the sole occupant of because he doesn’t have four roommates. His room is not shared with four other boys his junior with beds all lined against the wall like a hospital ward, with a single closet stuffed to the brim with all their clothing that is oftentimes haphazardly piled into a precarious mountain ready to topple over.
A room, calm and private, not merely used for sleeping but an actual haven that can be retreated into. A room spacious enough to stretch his arms wide without the fear of passing some arbitrary and imaginary territory barrier that could potentially set off one of Mochizuki-kun’s many tantrums. A room that is a peaceful enough space that his studies can be done leisurely, because he is without the ear-grating interruptions and distractions of the childish arguments and competitions held between preteens on who can squeal the loudest.
And. Other Hitoshi wouldn’t have to worry about Uemura-kun still occasionally stealing his underwear because the stupid pest is equal parts self proclaimed ‘prankster’ and unspoken pervert. Nor would Other Hitoshi be inundated with having to read Kanno-kun and Nakayama-kun their bedtime stories. Or having to help rouse the home most mornings. Or making sure his roommates are ready for school. Or having to help Sakai-kun, Ogura-kun, Tani-kun and Sekiguchi-kun with their homework since he’s been unofficially designated as the home’s tutor for not only being the oldest ward, but also a student of UA, and therefore automatically beholden to such responsibilities as he’s the most mature. Which is ironic, considering the home staff tend to be weary at the mere idea of Shinsou being outside for any length of time beyond school hours.
Of course Other Hitoshi is free of such things. He has his own room. He has—guardians. Shinsou cannot see the doorway of Other Hitoshi’s room but he idly wonders if there exists a lock on the outside or if his window has a sensor. If his closet can be locked and totally unopenable from the inside, plunging him into a small, uncaring darkness until all his tears have finally dried and he’s been reduced to only hiccups.
Shinsou stands—very awkwardly, he might add—in the living room as if he is no longer piloting his body and merely existing as a ghost. He dazedly turns his head to peer towards the kitchen. Silently, he takes note that none of the cabinets or the fridge has locks. The observation is recognized with a pang that reverberates through his stomach as his salivary glands automatically activate.
Turning away, he spies a balcony—an actual balcony, with a table and chairs! Overlooking the cityscape, looking like a postcard—accessed through a sliding door seated in the living room and near where the TV stands. A black mesh is visible, and it is a moment before Shinsou understands that it is an actual net that drapes the entirety of the balcony.
He wonders briefly if the existence of a net means that Other Hitoshi also has certain problematic urges. Casual thoughts of wishing to mangle his body like an abstract art piece with his brains spilled on the pavement. It’s an odd comfort. Like he’s being buried alive but isn’t alone in the casket.
But one that is short lived, because the actual reason as to why the balcony is netted makes itself known when the world’s best animal rounds the couch and enters his line of sight.
Mrrp, a brown tabby with white socks sings, the gods’ most perfect little creature.
Oh, Shinsou bleakly thinks as two curious green eyes peer up at him. This isn’t going to end well.
Notes:
Yes, those are some meager crumbs of what could be construed as Shinsou/Iida, because I am part of the seven and a half people who ship them, lol.
The entirety of this is already written. I decided that unlike my last 50K+ fic, that I'd try breaking this into chapters in the hope that maybe its easier to read that way? Or to force myself into taking my time with things. The next chapters will be posted when I stop being a perfectionist over them.
Also yes, Rusan is a reference to the Star Wars planet Ruusan.
Edit, 2024/07/16: To make it easier to visualize, HERE is the general floor plan I’m using for the Aizawa-Yamada apartment, so some descriptions have been changed to fit it.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter Text
He waddled into the kitchen like he was tugged on an invisible leash, when Yamada-san offered him a glass of juice. He accepts wordlessly because not only can he not decline such hospitality while under the man’s roof, but also as a means to escape the mounting pressure of not one, but two cats that exist unpetted. Haru and Maru, he was introduced when Aizawa-san unceremoniously dropped onto the couch to immediately nap, a pair of feline sisters that are virtually indistinguishable from one another save for the circular white patch of fur on Maru’s chest.
The absconding (mostly) frees him from the urge to lay flat on the floor and meow at the cats like some lunatic, but in doing so he is now given front row seats to the fridge, dotted with a menagerie of cat and Present Mic themed magnets. And, specifically, how it is decorated with three (3) separate photos of himself. Well, of Other Hitoshi, but that’s schematics.
Photos. On the fridge. Showing his face. Are Aizawa-san and Yamada-san really such sadists?
Topically, the first photo he notices is of Other Hitoshi in what can only be described as paradise: the boy is sprawled across the couch with a single half lidded eye peering at the camera, the rest of his face obscured by a mound of fur as Maru lays curled as a crescent mask across his face with Haru tucked beneath his chin, both cats using Other Hitoshi as a cushion as they peacefully sleep.
Predictably, a sharp sting of jealousy is stabbed in his chest, one Shinsou washes down with another mouthful of his orange juice as Yamada-san prattles on and on endlessly about anything and everything (about the cats, about the weather, about shenanigans he got up to in his youth) as the blond organizes dishware into cabinets.
Shinsou is Other Hitoshi, just visiting from another reality, so surely the cats could extend him the same honour? His clone looks remarkably comfortable in that photo. Smothered with cats. Ugh.
He drags his gaze towards the second photo, a trek into the uncanny valley because it’s him, obviously, but shorter. Younger. Automatically his brain refutes this because the image shows him being bracketed by Aizawa-san and Yamada-san on either side, both of whom he wouldn’t meet until some years later, and Shinsou needs to remind himself that it’s still Other Hitoshi. Other Hitoshi, pictured snugly dressed in a parka and scarf with each adult likewise garbed, snow visible in the background and the time clearly the evening. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen, presumably having grown just comfortable enough in the presence of either adult to have his picture taken with them, but not yet enough to allow any touch, as both teachers had left visible space on either side of Other Hitoshi from where they stand.
But more importantly, what the trio stand in front of: a grandiose ice sculpture of a tiger with its snout pulled into a snarl and at the ready to pounce, backlit by orange lights which sparkle against the surface of the ice, appearing almost to be made out of twinkling gemstones instead.
The Sapporo Snow Festival in Hokkaido, Shinsou idly recognizes, this mind unhelpfully bringing forth the buried memory of, of (his sperm and egg donor) attending the event and leaving a seven year old Shinsou behind, alone in the apartment with just enough food that the hunger didn’t make him pass out. His stomach subsisted on an empty pride that he was a big boy who could take care of things while the pair were away, and Shinsou is still unsure if his moments of holding full conversations with himself in an empty apartment during that time was because of full-on delirium or if he was taking the opportunity to freely speak without the fear of using Brainwash on someone.
Shinsou stares at the younger version of himself, of Other Hitoshi, with a Yamada-san blinding the camera with a beaming smile and holding the peace sign on his left, and an Aizawa-san whose eyes are only thing visible with his scarf pulled up and beanie pulled down on his right. The purple haired teen has his scarf similarly pulled upwards, obscuring his mouth and nose but with how his eyes crinkle, it is obvious he is smiling.
Shinsou understands the shield; he has long been told that his smile is ugly, that his face is scary. It is an ingrained instinct to hide his mouth if he feels his lips turn upwards, one he pushed down in the Sports Festival with the sole hope of unsettling his opponents.
Something deep, and seemingly endless, is beginning to form within him. Shinsou looks quickly away, but of course the third photo is one that is taken straight from his dreams, the image exactly how he conjured and held dear until it was staunchly proven that it could only exist as an impossible fantasy.
In another life, Shinsou would have stood tall with triumph coursing through his veins as crowds cheered in tandem with the thunderous beating of his heart. He would have clutched at a golden medal that he rightfully earned, the physical representation of his literal blood, sweat and tears. All undeniable proof that he could indeed be worth something. Something more than the titles spat his way.
Obviously, Shinsou did not win the Sports Festival. He held no medal, and stood on no podium; instead he had trudged out of the arena with a body that slowly grew numb in a heavy acceptance, because Shinsou is many things but at least he isn't a sore loser.
Evidently, however, this reality is that other life. Because Shinsou stares at a photo of himself—of Other Hitoshi, wearing a wide grin full of teeth. One that splits his face into the same sort of frenzied elation Shinsou had imagined himself attaining, when the Sports Festival loomed closer and sleep evaded him more stubbornly than usual, as his mind could not stop indulging hopeful fantasies of victory. His mirror image sports a bloody nose and disheveled hair, his face mottled with dirt and glistened with sweat. All to be expected, considering the teen is holding proudly a golden medal declaring him the winner of the Sports Festival.
It’s odd. He doesn’t stare helplessly at the polished medal reflecting sunlight so brightly it appears like an angel’s halo, but rather at—his face. Contorted so unnaturally in such raw delight it's nearly uncanny. It is undeniably him, Shinsou, Other Hitoshi, they’re the same person with the same face, but—he is nearly unrecognizable in the photo. It’s an emotion that is so entirely foreign to Shinsou, that it is difficult to see it portrayed in his own face. So much so that Shinsou nearly misses, entirely, that Other Hitoshi dons a capture scarf and a lowered voice modulator atop his PE uniform.
Yamada-san’s chattering has since concluded, although Shinsou can feel the man’s gaze resting upon him, as Other Hitoshi slinks beside Shinsou in his periphery.
“You won the Sports Festival.” Shinsou states in monotone, staring unblinkingly at the photo as if he’s a fish hypnotized by an angler's lure.
He’s such an idiot. No wonder 1-A is apparently familiar with the guy, Other Hitoshi is literally their fellow classmate.
“Yeah.” Other Hitoshi intones slowly, looking intently at him. “It’s how I got the Hero Course transfer. I was in Gen-Ed before.”
Good to know even across dimensions UA still has a bias towards physical quirks. He lets out a small huff of amusement at the thought.
“I didn't have the scarf or voice changer.” Shinsou continues completely needlessly while pointing to the photo, equally as needlessly. “Just tried to keep my quirk a secret and not draw attention to myself, and assumed that could be enough.”
It sounds so childish in hindsight. Poorly thought and poorly planned, powered by the world's most unreliable fuel: hope. Brittle and stretched thin and reinforced with some feeble arrogance, destined to crumble.
“Heh. Not my brightest moment.” Shinsou continues with an uncaring grin pointed inwards as he finishes his juice, the liquid suddenly having no taste. “And the rest is history.”
Shinsou turns his head and finally frees himself of the photo that feels distinctly more mocking than before. He looks at Other Hitoshi, who is now clad in jeans and a mauve sweater with the words “MEOW WOW” printed in English framing a portrait of a cartoon cat. There’s a small, nearly inconspicuous voice in the recesses of his mind that says it must’ve been Aizawa-san who gave him that sweater, and it nearly derails Shinsou into such a fiery demise that he has to shift from one foot to the other to bury the utterly infantile envy the thought brings, like a baby denied its rattle.
Other Hitoshi shrugs. “Well, keeping Brainwash a secret is a good strategy. It’s what I did, too. I also wore goggles, just to throw people off, and I made a big show of touching my opponents whenever I could, all to keep everyone guessing on how my quirk worked.”
Sure, whatever. Shinsou can appreciate the rationale. If only Shinsou of the past had the same foresight. Or had, y’know, two whole Pro Heroes at his ready disposal.
Maybe he shouldn’t have finished his juice already; he has nothing to wash out the sudden bitter taste in his mouth.
“Goggles and a scarf?” Shinsou drawls dryly. “Something tells me you took inspiration from Eraserhead.”
That elicits a snort from Yamada-san from where he leans against the kitchen counter. Other Hitoshi rubs at his nape with something that can be described as sheepish, of all things, forming in his expression.
“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” Yamada-san coos, dripping honeyed amusement and causing Other Hitoshi to duck his head as his ears dust pink.
Shinsou blinks at the (weird) display, and the blond turns his attention to him as he speaks again. “Has Shou told you yet that he was enrolled as a Gen-Ed student too, back in ye olden days?” Aizawa-san’s voice grumbles something about them being the same age from the direction of the couch. Yamada-san continues. “He snagged his Heroics transfer by winning the Sports Festival in his first year. I was second.”
Yamada-san flourishes the statement with a wink, clear pride weighing his words.
In retrospect:
Shinsou should’ve assumed as much. Erasure isn’t exactly conducive against robots. And while Shinsou has no doubts the man had plenty of rescue points, Aizawa always did have a habit of grumbling that the entrance exam isn’t rational, like it was a personal offense. Which apparently it is. Shinsou just can't believe it took traversing into an alternate universe in order to have it confirmed. Maybe… Aizawa is holding out that information for a grand, inspirational speech later. Yeah.
Yamada-san sighs wistfully. “It’s how Shou-chan and I first met, actually. It was love at first fist fight.” Something… fond crosses over Yamada-san’s features, causing Shinsou’s breath to hitch embarrassingly as it is accompanied by his next set of words. “You two little listeners really take after your favourite Hero, but who can really blame ya? Eraserhead’s my favourite too.”
Other Hitoshi rolls his eyes. Meanwhile, Shinsou feels as though he’s swallowed a mouthful of ungrounded black pepper.
(Yeah. Eraserhead is his favourite Hero. And being forced to ruminate about a clone of himself seemingly… inheriting the man’s gear and skills and living under his roof since he was eleven is making a stone sink in Shinsou’s stomach, filling his insides with tar.)
Aizawa-san’s voice drags through the air. “The brat stole my goggles.”
Yamada-san rolls his eyes. “Borrowed, with permission.”
“They’re my goggles, he only asked you because he knew I wouldn’t give them to him.”
“It was a spare. And it was for a good clause! I know you don’t regret it.” Yamada-san responds, completely unapologetic.
“Should’ve made his own, you’re just encouraging him to be lazy.”
After watching the exchange like he’s following a ping pong match, Shinsou raises a brow at Other Hitoshi.
His mirror image shrugs. “Yeah, they’re always like this.”
So that’s what marriage does to people, huh.
Shinsou shakes himself from the thought and turns to Yamada-san, asking: “Did you and Aizawa-san also commentate during the Sports Festival?”
“Oh you betcha.” Yamada-san preens. “Can’t have something like the UA Sports Festival without some sunny commentary carrying it, otherwise you’re just watching a school sanctioned brawl, which just isn’t as fun.”
Shinsou nods sagely, staring down his empty glass. “Nepotism.”
It’s a joke. Mostly. Trying to breathe humour to ease the background tightness of his throat.
(No way Other Hitoshi was—is it possible he was let in by recommendation as well?)
Yamada-san squawks, transforming into a raven and prompting Aizawa-san to rise and peek over the couch’s backrest in the event that eardrums are in imminent danger. The blond even places a hand on his chest to further exaggerate his apparent outrage.
Yamada-san squares his shoulders. “Our little Hitoshi landed that number one spot fair-n-square! There’s no industry plant here, just a hard-working, dedicated, competent—“
“Yamada…” Other Hitoshi mutters, dragging a hand down his face with ears twinging pink.
“—skilled, capable and very, very talented student who kicked butt.” Yamada-san points suddenly at Shinsou. “Which, by the way, also extends to you.”
Hitoshi. ‘Our little Hitoshi.’ Shinsou feels winded, with his chest tight as if his ribcage is too small and the air he breathes suddenly feeling like it possesses thorns.
He is reminded, very suddenly and very rudely like an anvil has been dropped in his head, that he hasn’t heard his given name spoken in—a moment. And having it voiced by both the likes of Aizawa and Yamada is making him dizzy like he’s had a surge of head rush, because while it may not be specifically directed at him, his body reacts regardless. And he is not remotely acclimatized to even the idea of his name cradled by those voices.
“O-okay.” Shinsou is able to mumble, looking instead at the space between Yamada-san’s eyes so he isn’t ensnared by a viridian gaze that’s way too sincere.
“Hitoshi won by his own merit and determination. And if he’d lost, then it would’ve been a good learning opportunity, and he’d find another way to transfer like you.” Aizawa-san adds, wiping his eyes before blinking sluggishly at Shinsou. “Which I would hope is how you recognize your loss, kid. A defeat, not a failure; your perseverance is a strength that will take you far. No feeling sorry for yourself, you clearly did what you could and left a good impression, if you got my attention. You’re doing fine.”
Shinsou has the sudden urge to simply drop the empty glass he still holds, yearning for something sharp to glide across bare skin and diverting attention off him.
“Oh yeah, keep your chin up, Shinsou-kun. You’re on the fast track to getting your own transfer, that much is a given. There’s a lesson in every mistake!” Yamada-san cheerily asserts. The blond leans towards him, and whispers conspiratorially. “Remember: You got into the final round all by your lonesome, you should be proud. Hitoshi here needed all that gear and Shou and me playing coach.”
Other Hitoshi groans. “You just said it wasn’t nepotism.”
Yamada-san chuckles, and Shinsou really does try to share it, but he can only manage some small twitching of his lips. A grimace, more than a smile, and he looks downwards to the floor when he walks towards the sink to deposit his glass, just as Other Hitoshi asks who did win the Sports Festival in his timeline and subsequently steering the conversation onwards to Bakugou and his many ‘eccentricities.’
When Shinsou was twelve and the Sapporo Snow Festival was occurring on the other side of the country, the then house-parent had asked him, repeatedly, why he was always so difficult. Why was he always screwing everything up, never doing anything right and if he was doing this all on purpose for attention. All demanded with a voice that steadily grew louder before reaching an ear-splitting crescendo, garnering the attention of the other children, and Shinsou was made to stand in front of a gaggle of gawking anklebiters as the house-parent pointed at him with an upturned nose and explained that none of them should ever be like him.
That little brats like him end up on the streets as useless drunks when they grow up, destined to die in an alleyway with the garbage. Shinsou was pulled by his ear and sent to bed early without dinner, reduced to gulping breaths in a vain attempt to keep the tears from escaping.
That was all due to Shinsou having spilled tea on the floor. A roommate was kind enough to sneak him a cookie later.
Meanwhile, in another life across dimensions, Other Hitoshi was staring wide eyed in childish amazement at ice and snow masterfully sculpted into the images of phoenixes, dragons and big cats of all varieties, finally understanding what the big deal was. Why he was left behind, all those years ago, forming a core memory with the two adults who were possibly the only two people to ever care about—Do Aizawa-san and Yamada-san know that story, is that why they took Other Hitoshi along—
Anyway. He’s been given a spare change of Other Hitoshi’s clothes, a simple grey crewneck and a pair of jeans, having been told to change in the bathroom. He has to pass Other Hitoshi’s room in order to retreat into the bathroom, because of course he does, practically having his own private bathroom because why not, all accessed through a small hallway that connects to his bedroom so he can keep everything to himself, and of course the guy couldn’t give him the courtesy of at least closing the door. It sits slightly ajar, only a slither visible but the gap morphed into a maw stretched impossibly wide and seeking to devour him whole.
He marches resolutely past, no matter how much the door feels like a snare pulling him towards the door by the neck, and enters the bathroom.
He breathes: the walls no longer feel as though they are closing in once the door is shut (and locked, and then rechecked to ensure they are locked), creating a suitable barrier between himself and everything. Everyone. Shinsou is not hasty when he changes, never looking at the mirror, sure to take longer than what would be expected but willing to test how much patience Aizawa-san and Yamada-san are prepared to give him.
He cannot hear the trio from the bathroom, only light indistinct murmurings from the living room that is intermittently dotted with the sounds of footsteps against the hardwood floor. He imagines idly that the topic of their conversation revolves around their current interdimensional guest and how best to dispose of his body so they can all carry on with their lives already.
Really, just gotta dump his body in the ocean and let the fish take care of it, great white sharks patrol the seas surrounding Japan, after all. He neatly folds his UA uniform on the bathroom counter as he glances at his reflection in the mirror.
But he’s already had enough of his image to last a lifetime, so Shinsou decides he’s earned the right to snoop. The cabinets yield nothing that isn’t out of the ordinary when considering its Present Mic who owns this bathroom. Shinsou is bewildered at the amount of hair gel he finds, and quietly decides he isn’t even going to breathe in the general direction of the hair products so he doesn’t inadvertently tarnish what must be some inordinately expensive hair care. He imagines the man must have an emergency supply in every corner of the apartment.
Opening the mirror cabinet, he finds shaving cream and deodorant. He notes with idle interest the lack of any little bottles with his name printed on them. The cabinet is bare of the expected menagerie of pills at the ready to scarf down.
Sleeping pills, antidepressants, anxiety meds, mood stabilizers, crazy pills, quirk suppressants—there’s a colourful list that could be applied to him. An ingredient list that could all be mixed together to create the world’s most successful sleep aid to be taken once. Give or take some initial headaches, gurgling and vomiting.
Shinsou imagines that if Other Hitoshi is medicated—and he must be, surely—then it is in the hands of the adults and kept far from the teen’s reach, mitigating against him either flushing them down the toilet or indulging in one too many. All administered physically by either teacher or done under their watchful gazes to insure he swallows.
(At the very least: Aizawa-san and Yamada-san could be—would be… pleasant, when having to carry out such responsibilities that they are beholden to as Other Hitoshi’s guardians.
They’d be better than the house-parent who asked icily calm, far too pleasantly, if Shinsou wanted to put on some ‘happy pills’ and become a drooling vegetable for the rest of his life, because that would become his future if he continued being such a problem, when Shinsou got into a physical altercation with some asinine schoolmates. Better than the teacher who had nodded along and then proceeded to speak in great detail how he’d be held down and forcefully medicated—for his own good—while all Shinsou could do was further shrink into his chair and feebly hiccup some apologies as he nursed his black eye.)
Alongside the shaving cream in the cabinet is, predictably, a razor. He expected a regular razor for normal people (Aizawa-san) and a fancy-shmancy sandalwood straight razor for weird people (Yamada-san), but what he finds is a single, ordinary shaving razor (because this is apparently Other Hitoshi’s private bathroom, what a pompous freak). Something hot settles in his stomach; they’re the same person, yet his clone has a razor which implies—why is it that Other Hitoshi is seemingly able to grow stubble but not Shinsou? Do Aizawa-san and Yamada-san have secret beard growth serums?
Shinsou stares at the razor blade, reflecting the overhead light. He feels his skin beginning to prickle, the phantom stinging growing exactly where he has planted the scars throughout the years.
Scars. Too numerous to count, all sown across his thighs, shoulders, flanks, stomach and upper arms; anywhere he could reach but easy to conceal with normal attire that would never spurn suspicion. His lower limbs are bare, elbow length sleeves and knee length shorts still being things he’d be expected to wear. Even when he was a newly christened junior high school student at age twelve, he had enough foresight to hold some shame and choose instead the canvas of his thighs as opposed to the obvious choice of his wrists when he first started painting himself red.
(Withdrawn into the refuge of a toilet stall in the most inconvenient bathroom he could find, Shinsou used the lunch period to fervently paw at a pencil sharpener with a fork.
His hands trembled in concurrence with his laboured breathing that was rankled through his gritted teeth, echoing against the walls of the empty bathroom like a snarling dog. His skin continued itching like there was a mound of insects pinching across every inch of his body with his hair still raised on all his limbs; the lingering effects of how Tsukamoto-kun used his quirk Static Shock to send a barrage of uninterrupted crackles to ignite each time Shinsou’s uniform rubbed against his skin when the older boy and his posse found Shinsou.
The perfect recipe to drive someone mad, because Shinsou nearly shed the entirety of his uniform in front of everyone in order to escape such misery. All the while Tsukamoto-kun and his cohorts pointed and shared a laugh at how Shinsou’s body involuntarily jerked at each shock, at how Shinsou slapped at himself as if he was swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes.
Shinsou fled, because it’s the same, it’s always the same and nothing changes, nothing will change. Not from elementary to junior high, and he already knew everything would remain the fucking same even when he reached senior high—but that was being too generous, to assume he’d even get the chance to graduate. His chances of living to fifteen or beyond grew increasingly slim with each passing day, with each passing breath, everything held together by a fraying string ready to snap at any moment.
His cheeks were already damp with tears dripping off his chin, speckles of rice still present in his hair from how Kure-chan with her quirk Elasticity to stretch her arms like winding snakes in order to snatch Shinsou’s bento before dumping it all on his head. Always the same.
It was a triumph, one marked with a glee that set his lips to turn upwards in a moment of delirious excitement, when his tampering with the pencil sharpener eventually paid off. The screw had loosened and soon, a blade was freed and cradled his hand as something small and precious.
This was his. He could control this. He could gather all the volatile shards of hopelessness hollowing him out and give it all a direction, use all that venomous vitriol as fuel to accomplish something productive: like carefully venting air out from an overinflated tire ready to burst, Shinsou had felt himself go lax with his trembling slowly abating, as he made ribbons of red bloom across his thighs.
The stinging held him together and ensured he wouldn’t shake himself into shambles. The blood wept from tallying his thighs from hip to knee restored his ability to properly breathe, and Shinsou, far away from his body and floating above the clouds, sat upon the toilet and stared with no focus at the streaks of crimson collected against his pale skin.
It was typical, that it was only then that luck smiled down upon him and kept the bathroom barren for Shinsou. He used damp tissues to wipe at his newly acquired stripes. He swaddled the razor in tissue and pocketed it after cleaning the blade, knowing well it would become his steadfast companion and so always knew to keep it safe.
Quickly, he adapted to any limping made from the welcomed aches blooming across his thighs. He concealed any wince born from the sharp stingings that were made from any movement. He grew very thankful for the black colour of his junior high uniform, graciously hiding away any stains of his cuts reopening.
He swiftly developed the habit of changing in and out of his uniform with the blatant disregard to all known laws of speed, practically a second quirk, and done far from any prying eyes. Whether that meant dressing in the dark quietly, long before any of his roommates woke, or ducking into a random café or convenience store to use their bathroom to change before/after school, Shinsou takes any opportunity given to him.
And so his collection grew, in bathroom stalls, empty locker rooms, barren alleyways and in the dark. Perhaps there is some merit to the outdated practice of bloodletting, because each time he made blood pool to the surface his tears would dry, and the pressure built inside his ribcage readying to make him implode would disperse when the blade broke his skin. It felt good. It feels good.)
Shinsou had wondered, and wonders still through many an idle fantasy, of putting his wrist into a blender and falling victim to either a sleeve riding up or being powerless against PE requiring rolled up sleeves. Of what happens then. His skin is so blanched that the raised striations deforming his skin in clusters of knotted scarring would be immediately noticed. Even those that have faded over the years are still attention grabbing, still discoloured and arranged in lines, wholly unmistakable for what they truly are.
He imagines: being taken out of the class and then subsequently strapped to a hospital bed while being lectured to think happy thoughts. To plug in his ears and sing ‘la la la’ and imagine kittens and rainbows whenever the urge arises. Treated like he’s made of glass that could shatter at any given moment and everyone speaking to him like he’s a toddler, ‘aw are you okay? Do you wanna talk about it?’ all so disgustingly saccharine that it’d make Shinsou want to vomit. People he’s never shared words with suddenly acting like they’ve been best friends for years and subsequently reprimanding him, taking the scars as a personal offense. Grins of amusement spreading across the face of others, telling him to cut his forearms lengthwise as opposed to side to side, to carve in deep, in order to get the best results.
(Aizawa, with lips thinned and disappointment lining his gaze, deciding that Shinsou is a lost cause and better locked up in the looney bin. Yamada, perpetual smile downturned and gloom encompassing his expression, spearing guilt and shame to anchor Shinsou into his grave.)
He thinks, now as he still gazes upon the razors in the cabinet, that perhaps a simple nick isn’t unwarranted. Just a slight, small line near his naval; something to prove that this whole situation wasn’t a fever dream when (if?) he returns to his original timeline. Proof that it all happened. There’s logic to that.
But that’s also—unsanitary, he couldn’t possibly do such a thing to Aizawa-san or Yamada-san, regardless of the fact they’re not his Aizawa and Mic-sensei. No matter the siren song that coaxes him to simply reach forward and pluck at a blade. No matter how quickly and easily he could add to his already lofty tally.
He closes the mirror cabinet. He’s spent long enough in here as is. He collects his folded uniform and unlocks the door.
Shinsou has long since conditioned himself to be good at ignoring things. The jeers, the fearful glances, the pangs of hunger, how he feels like a zoo animal at Rusan, the shame that’s a second skin; he knows how to ignore those with the mastery of a professional.
But Other Hitoshi just had to leave his damn door ajar—
He’s drawn to it like a magnet when he should be walking past, suddenly caught in a whirlpool, and he checks the hallway instinctively; voices, speaking of the school day but the area is clear and allotting him the privacy to just… take a peek. That’s all.
With steps slow as to not have the hardwood floor creak and shoulders grown taut, Shinsou feels like his body is a tightly coiled wire and on the precipice of snapping. A trespasser. A ghost.
With the sun still seated high in the sky and curtains parted, Other Hitoshi’s room is well illuminated. Too well, because Shinsou’s eyes do not need to adjust to any darkness nor does he have to manually discern obscure shapes, and so instead receives an unmistakable, front row view that Other Hitoshi is indeed an actual, full person.
With his own room. A bed possessing lavender covers and pillows, truly the best colour, neatly made on a white frame with, with—
Shinsou is not jealous. So what if his clone has a…
Plushie of an orange cat. One that is a literal body pillow. Of an adorable feline with an elongated body like a dachshund, its cute little limbs spread as if ready to give a hug. It rivals Shinsou in height and is obviously weathered, its faux fur clearly not as bright as it used to be and dishevelled, its surface wrinkled from… years, it must be years of.
Of. Cuddling. Snuggling. Of having arms curled around its soft body with Other Hitoshi’s face smushed into the fluffy fur as he soundly slept, with his body instantly rendered relaxed and boneless as soon as he embraced the utter luxury that is his very own long cat body pillow. What the hell.
Understand this: Shinsou isn’t a baby. He’s sixteen, practically an adult, he understands responsibility and is mature, more so than most his age. He starts breakfast most mornings in the home, helps rouse the other children to get ready for school, gets them dressed and aids in their homework. His grades are above average. He arrives to school on time and has never missed a class. He’s being trained by Eraserhead, with help from Present Mic.
He’s not a baby. So what, if Other Hitoshi has a giant cat plushie. That’s so embarrassing, what is he, three years old and unable to sleep on his own? Wow. Probably still wets the bed if he has to sleep with a stupid stuffed animal like a toddler. And Aizawa-san and Yamada-san were probably the ones who gave it to him, that’s just coddling, setting Other Hitoshi up for failure by, by spoiling him. Probably a, a. Birthday… present…
Deep breaths. In and out.
He doesn’t want a stupid fucking oversized cat toy meant for little kids. He doesn’t.
The door, once only ajar, has since been pushed open to view the room in its entirety. It was a draft that made the door creep open, Shinsou had no involvement, evident by how his arms are still full holding his folded uniform. He is blameless in this.
He has a bookshelf. Arching over a desk where an actual laptop and some sort of handheld console rests, because sure , why wouldn’t the guy also have his own laptop and handheld like he’s rich or something. The desk is spacious with a lamp and what appears to be a handmade wood carving of a cat, a decoration that would be expected at any given souvenir shop and probably from Okinawa or Aomori or Kyoto or wherever, because as evident with the Hokkaido photo on the fridge Other Hitoshi has actually been out of the prefecture, probably reguarly, a privilege Shinsou isn't granted these days. He never got permission to go on the school field trip to Osaka Castle back in junior high. Other Hitoshi probably did.
Predictably, the Sports Festival medal is sitting pretty on a stand in its own dedicated nook on the shelf as a centerpiece. Is that vain? Narcissistic? The surface of the gold is so clean and polished enough that Other Hitoshi could admire his own reflection.
(Is that black nail polish on the desk? What? Does he get to invite girls over?)
Scanning the bookshelf, Shinsou reads the titles concerning the ethics of Heroics, the history of Heroics, how quirks changed the world—’How to Manipulate, Persuade and Influence Anyone,’ he should ask to borrow that one actually—and the criminal psychology of Villains. Among the academic texts, there are also books and manga he doesn’t recognize but by their titles he assumes they relate to the mystery, action, fantasy and sci-fi genres.
Other Hitoshi could recommend books. He could also probably recommend movies and video games and definitely music if he lives with Present Mic. Because Other Hitoshi doesn’t merely exist, doesn’t merely wake and go to school and do the routine of the day like he’s some robot. Doesn’t perform his chores with his brain tuned to static and living solely on autopilot, because Other Hitoshi wouldn’t have needed to develop such a means in order to survive the day. Shinsou wouldn’t be able to answer the question ‘what’s your favourite movie.’ Other Hitoshi could.
Other Hitoshi is—a person. Well rounded, with actual interests, not some husk. Not some thing trying to masquerade as a human. Other Hitoshi wouldn’t suddenly turn to stone if anyone asked him what he liked, because he wouldn’t have white hot humiliation turning his mouth dry. Other Hitoshi doesn’t merely exist to go to school, he gets to go to Hokkaido. Other Hitoshi doesn’t have more in common with garbage than he does with other people.
Cats are the best and should be everyone’s favourite animal enforced by law, but they can only take Shinsou so far before he feels like an alien from a different galaxy. Completely unable to relate to another human being on something as simple as TV shows or movies or games or hobbies or anything.
Shinsou blinks.
Oh. There’s a cycling helmet hanging off the desk chair. Purple, of course.
This is beginning to feel a little cruel. This really is just some big cosmic joke done at his expense.
And giving further credence to the idea that there is a higher power or two who specifically have it out for him is the fact the hairs on the back of his neck have raised. Automatically, his body straightens with his muscles growing tense, and Shinsou quickly catalogues what has gone wrong: there is no longer the chattering of voices in the background.
Idiot, he seethes internally, before turning to meet the gaze of the teen whose space he’s ogling.
Other Hitoshi stands casually, body relaxed with his expression aloof, seemingly totally apathetic to catching Shinsou acting like some voyeuristic whack job.
Shinsou opts to forego the staring contest.
“You have a bike.” He finds himself saying, words tasting like sawdust.
Other Hitoshi dips his head slowly in a single nod. “... Yeah.”
“Iida said you cycle with him.”
Is that a weekly occurrence? Do they text each other, coordinating a date and time to go do their joint cycling/jogging meetups? Or does Iida simply tag along uninvited and Other Hitoshi just doesn’t have the energy to tell Iida to stick his engines where the sun doesn’t shine?
Probably a really nice bike, too. Matching the helmet with a purple and black colour scheme, with its paint being chipped, denoting years of regular use with its chain and drivetrain kept well maintained. One that has chronicled many miles and the vehicle embodying Other Hitoshi’s—freedom. Making him feel like he’s the only person in the world with no burdens weighing him down as if chained to a slab of concrete.
(There are two separate bicycles that can be shared at the home. Both possess tracking devices just as Shinsou’s school blazer does, and only a specific route is allowed to be used with thirty minutes permitted at maximum. For Shinsou, at least.
At fourteen Shinsou was given a ban on both. A natural consequence for using his quirk against a pair of classmates. Never mind that it was said classmates who started it by pushing him down the stairs and nearly making him crack his skull open like a splattered watermelon, but Shinsou quickly shut his mouth when attempting to explain his side only earned him a red handprint on both sides of his face and the promise of the muzzle coming out.
He had been told he could cycle again if he could prove he could be good. He hasn’t gotten into a fight since. He hasn’t been allowed to cycle since. His body has been decorated with many more scars since.)
Okay. Sure. Shinsou understands that he is selfish and contrary to what many may believe, it isn’t a trait he’s particularly proud of. But ten minutes, even five, just a single circuit around the block, he’ll gladly do everyone’s dishes for three months if it means he could have a moment where he didn’t have to think. A moment of quiet, only the sounds of the bike’s chains rattling following him as he feels the passing breeze caress his face like he is flying.
Other Hitoshi gives a crooked smile. “Yup. I’ve yet to beat him at a race, but one day. Iida’s a bit overwhelming at first, with all the—“ he performs some karate chops in the air “—but not as annoying as you’d might first expect. He’s actually pretty funny, mostly unintentionally, and kinda nice to hang out with.”
Fucking Iida. Weirdo. Shinsou raises an unimpressed brow. “You his agent, or something?”
”I’m just saying that your Iida could, y’know, also be your friend sometime. Maybe.” Other Hitoshi shrugs as he steps forward slightly. “Don’t tell Yamada I said this, but making friends is actually worth it. I didn’t have any friends until UA. And even then it took until 1-A, and only when Midoriya and his posse eventually wore me down.”
A wry smile grows on Other Hitoshi’s face. Something some might even say looks fond. “Seriously, that guy would befriend a rock if he could. Even Bakugou’s not that bad when you get around his rough edges, and his stupid ‘Bakusquad’ should be the subject of a scientific study.”
Shinsou decides he doesn’t want to know what the hell a ‘Bakusquad’ is.
Shinsou really didn’t need to see his own face get all... Indulgent… with his lips formed into a lazy grin and eyes wistful, especially when talking about Midoriya and Bakugou. Shinsou hates that people were right: his smile really is just ugly.
Shinsou’s annoyance bubbles to the surface like a pot boiling over.
“I’m not in 1-A, remember?”
He feels the glower that’s on his face. Other Hitoshi remains impassive.
“But you will be.” Other Hitoshi says too easily, as if he can see the future. “And the guys from Gen-Ed aren’t so bad, either. They threw a whole party when I transferred, with cake and everything, they’ll do the same for you.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Sure, you don’t have to waste any energy on them because you’ll transfer eventually, but being on good terms with your classmates is hardly a bad thing. Heroes have Sidekicks, y’know.”
Shinsou understands that the correct response would be something along the lines of ‘aw gee okay thanks!’ with a smile on his face and a skip in his step. Therein exists no further muted conversation from beyond this hallway giving them the illusion of privacy, which can only hint that both adults—have taken interest. Are listening. Can it be called eavesdropping if it’s literally their own home?
But there’s something ugly inside him. Something polluted into his very bones and inseparable from himself, forever staining him since he was a child. A contorted misery settling tar in his stomach and causing his teeth to grind together, spurred by a jealousy that makes him rot from the inside out.
(Shinsou wants to see Other Hitoshi with his skin a marbled patchwork of bruises, blood caking his nose and an eye swollen completely shut. Maybe if Shinsou can see the image from an outside perspective, like standing in the proverbial shoes of those who admired their handiwork after using him as a punching bag, he could better understand it. He could understand why it happens.)
“Tokunaga-kun likes hitting me on the head whenever he passes me.” Shinsou remarks flatly, coarse like a gravel road. “Yokota-kun really likes reminding me that her parents love her, and always will love her.”
Shinsou is being unfair, he knows it but likewise doesn’t care; the majority of 1-C do not go out of their way to be annoyances. Most are even downright polite to him, extending beyond the expected courtesy amongst classmates by inviting him to study groups and actually appearing excited (UA can be so weird at times. A lot of times) whenever being paired up with him for an exercise. Shinsou is still called the ‘Hero of Gen-Ed,’ a really stupid nickname bestowed upon him after the Sports Festival, the title of which took him a full week to understand wasn’t meant as an insult but indeed was actually amicable, no matter how much Shinsou dislikes it. Iseri-kun, the class president, even forced Tokunaga-kun to apologize to him after she caught him giving his customary smack to Shinsou’s head.
But Shinsou’s always been an asshole, it’s just part of his nature. There’s a sneer on his face.
“There was a red spider lily on my desk two weeks ago.”
And oh yeah, that was real fucking original. Putting the flower that means death and abandonment on the desk of the guy who's the burgeoning Villain in the making, complete with a tragic backstory that could fill a book with clichés. Totally has never been done before. Shinsou employed a hearty roll of the eyes and crushed the flower as he threw it in the garbage. Definitely from Tokunaga-kun, because the idiot needs to compensate for how boring his quirk of changing objects into the colour blue is.
Other Hitoshi watches him with pinched brows which, really, is just a rookie mistake. To show on his face that he’s actually bothered by Shinsou’s words. What else did Other Hitoshi expect?
“You should tell Aizawa or Yamada about that. All of it.” His clone asserts, something dire underlying his tone. “They’ll help you.”
Shinsou stares. Glowers. Glares, even. That must be an easy thing to believe for someone who has lived with both adults since he was eleven, and somehow managed not being returned to Rusan or left in an alleyway or quietly disposed of in the meanwhile.
Eleven years old and with the emotional maturity of a five year old but—was still able to stay. For five years he’s been able to stay with Aizawa-san and Yamada-san. He turned sixteen while living under this roof and seemingly has the chance to continue staying for years onwards. To stay with his oversized cat plushie and bike and actual cats.
Shinsou wonders (with the idea of somehow overpowering Other Hitoshi and smothering the life out of his clone in order to take his place becoming quietly more and more appealing) if Other Hitoshi also looks like he lost a fight with a boat propeller under his clothes.
“I don’t live with them.” Shinsou mutters, suddenly feeling like he speaks at a funeral instead.
“And?” Scoffs Other Hitoshi. “They’re teachers, it’s literally their job to deal with this type of crap. To take care of their students. They can and will help, they’d literally go on the warpath. You don’t deserve any of that shit happening to you.” Well that’s fucking bizarre to have aimed at him in his own voice. “Surely your Aizawa also has a reputation for expelling assholes?”
Shinsou feels his nose wrinkle at that. Yeah, of course ‘his’ Aizawa has a penchant for expelling brats, that much was reinforced when the man opened up a vacancy in 1-A by making that tiny grape headed pervert wish he was never born. But Shinsou—
Getting into UA wasn’t easy. What is gained for getting a promising student expelled for putting some stupid flower on his desk? Shinsou knows he isn’t pleasant but he isn’t cruel, nor is he fragile. Such pettiness would only tell Aizawa he isn’t actually fit to become a Hero.
And Aizawa and Yamada would have to tattle to Rusan because as teachers it would be their literal job to do so, and Shinsou isn’t about to give the home director any reason to rescind the permission he gave to let Shinsou train after school.
Shinsou’s memory harkens back to his encounter with Iida. ‘Scoundrels,’ yeah, whatever. At least Other Hitoshi, with everything that he has, still has some healthy antagonism to keep him humble.
“Did you tell them?” Shinsou asks with his brows raised in irritation, his voice sounding remarkably similar to the schoolmates both past and present who enjoyed sneering at him.
Other Hitoshi’s lips purse, and Shinsou suddenly hates how much the guy looks like Aizawa.
“… They found out.” Other Hitoshi tersely says, admitting to being a hypocrite and then a liar: “And I’m glad they did. Listen, I get it, talking about that kinda stuff sucks. But you don’t—there’s no, like, honour or anything in acting like it never gets to you. I know how shitty it feels, I’m you. ”
Shinsou’s first instinct is to pull back his lips and snarl, gritting out that no, they’re not the same, they can’t be. They’ll never be the same. They only share the same face, not even the same body, because going to an onsen or undressing in the locker rooms must be an uncomplicated thing for Other Hitoshi. He’d be comfortable nude or just in swim trunks because what reason could he possibly have to glide a razor across his skin if he has two literal Pro Heroes as guardians?
Other Hitoshi rubs his face. “I—I know your Aizawa and Yamada aren’t… y’know, your, uh…”
A poet he is not. Really, not a good look for someone who aims to become a Hero and whose quirk is literally voice based.
It’s oddly soothing, like finally passing out from being smothered with chloroform, that Other Hitoshi clearly stumbles—very ungracefully—over associating Aizawa(-san) and Yamada(-san) like… that. At least he still remembers where he came from, not yet too big headed for his own good.
Shinsou decides to spare him the misery. He asks: “Can I feed your cats?”
They arrive at an impasse. Other Hitoshi takes the cessation for what it is, being probably the only person in all of any existence to understand such a topic is better left dropped, because it’s hardly something to be discussed in the hallway.
“Sure.” Other Hitoshi mumbles, before shaking himself in order to perk up. “We have catnip too, they get real stupid when they get high. One time, Haru did a full on backflip off the couch and then climbed Yamada as if he was a tree to chew on his hair.”
Other Hitoshi turns to walk towards the living room, and Shinsou follows.
“Also have you heard Maru meow yet? She’s so raspy that she sounds like a fart.”
Okay, so Maru’s meow does actually dig up an actual laugh out of him. She croaks at him as soon as he rounds the corner into the living room, probably vocalizing her discontent at the fact she’s still seeing double. She even looks bewildered in her feline expression with her emerald eyes tracking both teens before she trots off to take residence in the cat tree alongside her sister Haru.
Shinsou hands over his uniform to Yamada-san when the adult vacates where he had been previously sitting on the couch to meet the teen halfway. Other Hitoshi trudges off towards the direction of the kitchen and Aizawa is still one with the cushions, scrolling on his phone.
“You feeling okay, bud?” Yamada-san asks gently as he bundles Shinsou’s uniform in his arms. It should be infantilizing, being spoken to in such a way, like the man is kneeling down to a toddler’s level and pouting at him. Shinsou decides it is infantilizing. He forces out a budding sense of annoyance in order to supersede how the genuine concern in Yamada-san’s voice is causing little butterflies to flutter in his stomach.
If Shinsou didn’t respect the man in front of him as much as he does, if he wasn’t someone who knew well to honour his elders and also didn’t want to sleep on a park bench again, he may have snarked out something along the lines of: Well, I’m doing as fine as someone can be after literally being displaced from my reality and being forced to endure the knowledge that my two (favourite) teachers are married.
There’s also something to be said about the whole ‘alternate universe me actually having par—guardians that are the aforementioned (favourite) teachers is making me want to rip my skin off,’ but schematics.
Instead: “M’fine.” And, then: “Thanks.” Because he doesn’t want to be rude.
Yamada-san looks like he wants to add to that. To poke and pry further but really what sort of useless platitudes can be said to an interdimensional interloper, without making it painfully obvious he overheard Shinsou and Other Hitoshi’s spontaneous hallway chat? As the adult, teacher and literal owner of this home the man would have every right to further interrogate but the man blessedly decides not to pour salt on the wound in the middle of the living room. Mostly.
“Well, if you need anything, and I really do mean anything, food or a blanket or time alone or a shoulder to cry on, you just come to either Shou or I, alright?” Yamada-san smiles and Shinsou wants to believe him, really, really wants to. “It’s a whole lot easier for us to know what you need if ya use your words once in a while, little listener, no one here is a mind reader!”
Shinsou has the sneaking suspicion that there exists a double meaning in that.
“… Okay. Thank you, Yamada-san. I will tell you if I need anything.”
As a general rule of thumb, Shinsou doesn’t like mumbling because it’s childish and disrespectful. But Yamada-san’s disgusting earnestness is filling his mouth with molasses.
Aizawa decides to speak next from where he sits on the couch.
“Don’t go making things harder for yourself than they need to be, kid. That’s irrational. And remember:” Aizawa straightens in his seat and ensures eye contact with Shinsou, who is helplessly ensnared by the man’s piercing stare. “Hizashi and I are always here to help you, Shinsou. Understand that the both of us do care about you. It doesn’t matter to us that you’re not from our world.”
Shinsou’s stomach is seriously about to jettison out through his mouth and splatter all over the guy’s nice hardwood floors.
Shinsou quickly nods as if his head is perched on a rusty nail, averting his gaze to the floor and then to the opposite wall, before forcing himself to thaw from his frozen state in order to stumble towards the kitchen, ironically seeking Other Hitoshi for refuge.
The cats do, indeed, get a little stupid, a little silly, when given a dose of catnip. Playing with the feather toy and marveling at feline parkour does help keep the blazing fires of his unease from growing any further and turning him into an unrecognizable charred heap. For now, at least.
He sequesters himself in the living room because what else can he do. It’s where the cats are. Any sane person goes where the cats are. With the peace offering of catnip, food and playtime having been graciously accepted, the cats no longer keep their distance from him and instead seem to accept that yes, there are for some reason two purple haired apes—but that just means double the pets.
Evident with how Haru lounges on the floor with him as Shinsou gives her some well deserved cheek and chin scritches, honouring the teen with the healing frequencies of some ample purring.
Shinsou sits cross legged and focuses all his attention on the task at hand, committing the visage of Haru’s content little kitty face to memory with how it appears she is smiling with her mouth a perfect ‘3’ shape. Her soft fur, the vibration of her purrs and her trust could make Shinsou turn into a puddle of goo. And he wishes it would, literally, so then he could escape through the cracks of the floors and disappear forever and not have to acknowledge the fact that just beyond his periphery, Other Hitoshi sits with Aizawa-san on the couches with the teen’s homework spread across the table. Because his mirror self asked for help. About some specifics regarding public relations in Heroics, and Aizawa-san had actually—cleared the table. Pat the space next to him to have Other Hitoshi sit down. Is actively explaining the coursework.
Shinsou knows he should be actively listening in on their conversation. It’s not eavesdropping if it’s happening in the same room, and it clearly pertains to Heroics; it could… give him an edge, to casually listen in and to digest it. A waste of a resource to not do so.
He listens to the purring instead. Loud as a jet engine. Totally drowning out any other noise. Can’t be helped. A blessing in disguise because he’s so entirely distracted by the cat that he’s not ruminating on just how—just how frustratingly easy Other Hitoshi has it. All served on a silver fucking platter. He has his teacher literally giving him his complete, undivided attention because Aizawa-san has just accepted to indulge Other Hitoshi and the teen’s puerile need for clarification.
Shucked into the care of Aizawa-san and Yamada-san since he was eleven. Shinsou doesn’t think it could be true with the likes of Eraserhead, specifically, but it must be what has happened: that Other Hitoshi has actually managed to whittle down the man’s resolve. Through years of continuous, inescapable misery of an unbalanced demon child spitting, punching, kicking, screaming, Brainwashing and crying and crying and crying—the adults have probably aged a century in those five years, any strength they had all wrung out and instead replaced with an unending sense of burnout that has Aizawa-san just sit there and talk about public relations when he’s a literal Underground Hero.
Present Mic is literally in the kitchen. Has Aizawa-san really been so torn down by an ungodly amount of meltdowns and tantrums that he has just conceded instead of pointing the teen to the more appropriate resource? The man was literally doing paperwork prior. Other Hitoshi is so…
Spoiled. Like curdled milk. Shinsou imagines if he had a side-by-side comparison of ‘his’ teachers versus the two present here, he could identify Aizawa-san and Yamada-san purely by the heaviness of their eyebags.
Shinsou needs to manually remember to unclench his jaw. Haru has retracted herself from his ministrations to bathe herself, so with no cat currently being petted Shinsou slides his gaze elsewhere; namely at how he notices there’s a gaming console connected to the TV. Two controllers are present, along with a neatly stacked mound of games he vaguely recognizes, from kart racers to RPGs.
He’s like a disease. Other Hitoshi has spread his influence to the living room, because surely neither adult wastes their time with such… such childish pursuits. Because stupid video games are meant for stupid kids. Ugh. And two controllers because what is Shin—Other Hitoshi if not a burden.
And it’s a nice looking TV that it’s all hooked up to. All… tainted, or whatever, with extra cables and wires and a whole other device connected to it. That’s probably a tripping hazard. Certainly an eyesore. A distraction, if anything else, when they use the TV and… Use it for its intended purpose of watching movies. With enough space on the couches for all three to comfortably sprawl themselves upon and enjoy a movie. Together. Because. They’re a fam—
Shinsou pinches the bridge of his nose, and thinks how in Ancient Egypt people would pull the brains out of corpses through the nose with hooks. He could probably do it with his fingers and enough motivation.
Yamada-san’s voice suddenly sounding from over his shoulder nearly gives him a heart attack.
“Which song you wanna groove to, little listener: beef or chicken for dinner? Sorry for spooking ya.” The blond asks pleasantly, not sounding very sorry, having waltzed his way towards Shinsou and now crouched beside the teen. “Gyudon or oyakodon?”
After his heart no longer feels as though it’s about to explode—thanks, Yamada-san—Shinsou blinks like an idiot before the man’s words become comprehensible to his useless brain.
Automatically, Shinsou shifts his gaze to peer at the other occupants of the room, because he isn’t the one who lives here. Maybe Yamada-san mistook him for Other Hitoshi (honestly Shinsou’s surprised it took this long), because his other self has either finished his homework or is taking a break, as he’s reclined on the couch cross-legged while on his phone, with Aizawa-san tending to his own paperwork.
Then Yamada-san speaks again. “You’re our esteemed guest, Shinsou, you get the DJ’s seat. So, what’cha craving?”
“Either’s fine. They’re both good.” See, that’s the correct answer, because Shinsou isn’t picky when it comes to food because he knows how to be grateful. But Yamada-san’s raised eyebrow suddenly has him hungry for beef. “Uh, gyudon. Please and thank you.”
“Coming right up, young sir.”
Yamada-san stands with an exaggerated bow, turning on his heel to march back towards the kitchen.
But as the blond walks, something terrible happens:
Yamada-san briefly pauses when he passes the couch and stands behind the pair who sit on it. The man raises his hand to summon an invisible stake to be hammered straight into Shinsou’s chest and impale his still beating heart.
He pats Other Hitoshi’s head. Ruffles his other self’s purple mess of hair so gently that Shinsou can feel the phantom hand on his own head. Fingers delicately carding through his hair and massaging his scalp, making him intimately knowledgeable on why cats meow and paw for pets because it makes him feel like he could float far above the clouds and understand what peace actually is. That’s—that’s not good. The exact opposite of good. Shinsou’s like a tar pit. It’s repugnant that he thinks like that regarding his teachers.
And. Oh no. Other Hitoshi probably gets those damnable head pats … frequently, maybe semi-regularly, and it wouldn’t be inappropriate for the guy to, to lean into the touch.
And that’s not even the worst part.
“Baby, can you find it within your heart to give little ol’ me a hand in the kitchen?”
Oh, what the fuck. Come on.
Yamada-san wears an affectionate smile as he looks down at Other Hitoshi, and Shinsou doesn’t have a stomach anymore, there’s just a writhing, loathsome hoard of worms swirling within him. All pushing against the thin barrier of his skin and gnashing against the weakness that is the collection of scars, ready to split his flesh into pieces.
Other Hitoshi doesn’t have a reaction that implies such a thing is out of the ordinary. That Yamada-san referring to him as ‘baby,’ (fucking ‘baby’? What?) is somehow not patently absurd.
And Yamada-san’s smile. Small but warm like sitting by a lit hearth, curled in a cocoon of blankets and sipping hot chocolate as snow piles at the window. But, but, but—he’s looking at Other Hitoshi as he wears it. Why? How? Isn’t it simply expected for their ward to cook for them?
Other Hitoshi pockets his phone and stretches as he stands, saying something about how Yamada-san is getting brittle in his old age which prompts a snicker from the man as the pair stroll towards the kitchen. Together. Side by side, with Yamada-san bumping his shoulder against the teen as he tweedles on about how Other Hitoshi is always his favourite culinary Sidekick.
Shinsou would ask if he was suddenly transported into an alien world, when he remembers he already has. He feels as though he had just bore witness to some exotic, unknowable ritual that requires years of peer reviewed study.
As the sounds of dishware being prepared litter out from the kitchen, Shinsou finally has the strength to tear away his gaze to peer at Aizawa-san who is, of course, already staring at him through the curtain of his dark hair.
This time, at least, Shinsou isn’t cowed in his embarrassment because his disbelief has him act first.
‘Baby?’ He mouths incredulously at the Erasure Hero.
That spurs a reaction. Aizawa-san snorts in amusement as his lips turn upwards, baring teeth but not a snarl or a warning, instead something genuine. Small. Warm. A… affectionate, even. Definitely. Oh.
Shinsou looks away, shaking his head and hopefully dispelling the image from his memory forever, like exorcising a ghost that would never let him have a moment of respite. It’s white-hot, like grabbing molten metal, the venom that courses through his veins and contaminating the surrounding sinew. A feeling he’s becoming far too familiar with lately. A very real, and palpable jealousy.
When he tries to re-initiate petting Haru, the cat stands and saunters off without looking back, seemingly able to smell that the air around Shinsou has soured.
He’s feeding, refeeding, playing and checking on his virtual cats while intermittently browsing random meme pages (mostly about cats, obviously) in a vain effort to waste the time away. Shinsou is still seated cross legged on the floor where Haru left him (woe is he), hunched over his phone and curled in on himself like he’s on his way to becoming a contortionist.
Aizawa-san’s voice rouses him.
“Sit on the couch, Shinsou. I’m getting back aches just looking at you.”
An apt way of putting it, because when Shinsou uncoils himself he hears all his vertebrae crack in succession like the world’s saddest xylophone. When he re-organizes himself as a pretzel on the couch, he seats himself the furthest away from Aizawa-san. When his phone is proven useless in reliably turning his brain into mush, Shinsou dazedly finds his eyes wandering to Aizawa-san’s mound of paperwork, which has him realize that they’re assignments that the man grades.
Aizawa-san gives him an unimpressed glance when the man folds what he had been currently grading in order to block Shinsou’s line of sight. The action has the teen dust pink, because it is only then he becomes painfully aware that he had subconsciously leaned towards the man’s direction in order to peer at the paperwork. Shinsou automatically jolts back, thumping his back against the backrest with a muttered apology.
This is—maddening. The idleness, but more so the fact he grows restless because of it, he’s better than that. He’s had long, excruciating lessons on such antsiness when he was younger and stupider and getting into trouble practically on a daily basis as if he were collecting points in a video game. When he wasn’t locked in the closet (small with the walls closing in and the darkness suffocating him), he was sat on a chair and forced to stare at the wall for hours. Until he was quiet and still and good, all those jitters seeped from him after any complaining, slouching, falling asleep or crying was met with the muzzle and additional time in—ugh. Time-out. So childish. Barf.
He fiddles with his phone again, finding his way to his contacts and musing upon the message thread he has with ‘his’ Aizawa. It is characterized by sporadic clarifications of when and where and what to bring for training, whether or not Mic-sensei is tagging along, questions on what food Shinsou wants afterwards, and whether or not training has been cancelled or rescheduled.
And the cat photo Shinsou sent. Aizawa’s ‘cute.’ Shinsou’s unsuccessful attempts at trans-dimensional communication.
Shinsou tries calling again. Like before, his call isn’t able to connect. Okay, well, third time’s the charm? Nope. It still doesn’t go through.
Without a steady source of distraction, his thumbs raise to mindlessly start texting.
[Shinsou]: Hi Sensei. I'm still stuck in the alternate reality btw. The mic-sensei here is making dinner. Im safe [thumbs up emoji]
He presses send because there is a nagging thought in the recesses of his mind of what if those prior messages did in fact send? Paranoia is a healthy thing to possess. And Aizawa would appreciate an update, surely. Hopefully. Since Aizawa is old, and Shinsou respects his elders, he adds:
[Shinsou]: (Btw means ‘by the way’ by the way)
Rationally, and in the voice that sounds suspiciously like Aizawa himself, Shinsou knows it is unlikely that the man is receiving any of these messages. Because if Shinsou’s messages are successfully traversing through time and space, then what is stopping Aizawa from responding?
But such a thought does not stop Shinsou’s thumbs from moving.
[Shinsou]: Is time still progressing over there? Am I missing? Has it been a day there? A week? A year?
That he doesn’t send, because unfortunately it prompts him to think about his current situation.
Obviously, if he had suddenly disappeared, it would be noticed. His absence would be recorded at school and likewise immediately noted by the home when he never returns, assuming he was snatched out of existence on his way to UA. Shinsou can clearly imagine the theories: that he was kidnapped and never seen again or ran off on his own accord to start his Villain career early but was met with some unknown fate.
Well—Aizawa and Mic-sensei are both Pros, his mentor and teacher respectively, there’d be a search. There’d have to be one. Maybe not manned by the men themselves because they have actual Heroes in the making (could be a good exercise to give to the Heroics classes, actually), but they’d notice. Shinsou is sure of it. They’d have to.
That’s not a fun thought, nor is it constructive, so Shinsou deletes the message and types something new.
[Shinsou]: R u married to mic-sensei????????? Ur married to mic-sensei here
The multitudes of question marks really demonstrate how important the question is. Shinsou doesn’t send it because it’s inappropriate and the thought of Aizawa sternly scolding him as much is enough for Shinsou to bite his tongue. Or to delete the message and retype.
[Shinsou]: Who proposed???
His money is on Mic-sensei. That just seems to make the most sense. He doesn’t send it, obviously.
This one-sided conversation is actually riveting. Moving his thumbs like joysticks at least keeps him faux-busy. He continues, typing and then deleting.
[Shinsou]: Im in ur apartment btw its nice. They have two cats here named maru and haru. Do u also have cats??
[Shinsou]: oh yeah also there’s another me here. It was very weird meeting myself
[Shinsou]: he’s kinda annoying lol guess he really is me
[Shinsou]: he’s me but completely different. He actually won the sports festival for starters
[Shinsou]: and he lives with u here. You and mic-sensei
His stomach is suddenly filled with nothing but acid that's beginning to fizz. He deletes and types again.
[Shinsou]: He’s been living with you since he was
Delete—
[Shinsou]: you and mic-sensei are his
Delete—
[Shinsou] do you and mic-sensei have kids
Delete—
[Shinsou]: do you and mic-sensei want ki
Delete—
[Shinsou]: I want
Delete—
Shinsou rubs a hand down his face, wishing to sprout claws and mangle his visage beyond recognition.
[Shinsou]: [poop emoji] [poop emoji] [poop emoji] [poop emoji] [poop emoji] [poop emoji]
[Shinsou]: [cat emoji] [cat emoji] [cat emoji] [cat emoji] [cat emoji] [cat emoji] [cat emoji]
He releases a great, sparkling wall of every emoji that is available on his phone, taking a full minute to both type out and then subsequently delete.
He stares at the screen despondently, waiting for his eyes to dry and shrivel up in their sockets as the Aizawa on the phone remains silent. Aizawa-san to his left is similarly reticent, with only the scratching of his pen against the papers he grades providing a soundtrack to Shinsou resolutely staring a hole into his phone.
Bustling continues to sound from the kitchen, wafting through the air with Yamada-san’s muted humming, all a relentless snare that imprisons Shinsou in terrible understanding that Other Hitoshi has had this since he was eleven. It isn’t a fact Shinsou has any hope of forgetting, and it’s an indomitable presence that refuses to be ignored, and his other self spent three years in Rusan whereas Shinsou has—
Half his life. Half his life he spent in a children’s home. And too soon it’ll turn into the majority of his life squandered away in a home he’s always been too selfish to properly be grateful for. Irreparably marring his relationship with the home from the very start and wasting what was a second lease at life, because he always ends up proving that everyone’s assumptions about him are right. That he’s a mistake, that he shouldn’t have been born, that he was the reason his parents… did what they did.
He wonders if Aizawa-san and Yamada-san were told… that, when they were given Other Hitoshi. Warned of damaged goods. Why he was in a children's home to begin with. Or if his other self confessed to them himself. And was still kept under their roof regardless, still welcomed.
Shinsou’s thumbs move on their own accord like a marionette pulled on strings.
Breathe, in and out.
[Shinsou]: When I was eight yrs old my mom tried to drown me in the bathtub lol
He nearly presses send, is the thing.
Logically, he knows it wouldn’t make a difference if he did send it because it wouldn’t have gone through just like all the other useless messages. But it’s a conscious effort to drift his thumb away from where it was hovering over the ‘send’ button like it was a waiting guillotine.
(“They’ll help you.” His clone asserted with a confidence Shinsou wants to automatically scoff at, because the last time Shinsou dared squeak at a teacher that his mom pulls on his ears like she’s trying to rip them off his head while screaming at him to listen, and that his dad’s belt sometimes makes him bleed, the teacher tattled to his parents. Because they have to, that’s their job, the parents/guardians are at the top of the totem pole, with teachers in the middle and children at the base.
He doesn't remember what his parents did after that. He just remembers asking them to please stop, that he’s sorry, always too small.)
Shinsou stares at the text for a moment longer. None of the children at Rusan are permitted to speak about their parents or the circumstance as to why they’ve been taken out of their care. He’s never—
Shinsou’s never spoken about. That. It doesn’t feel good. Like he’s running out of air and about to inhale water.
He takes a deep, all encompassing breath through his nose, expanding his lungs to their full capacity before slowly exhaling. Aizawa-san glances at him in his periphery, so Shinsou finds himself typing as a means to escape the man’s scrutiny. Type and delete. Type and delete. Move on, move on, move on.
[Shinsou]: that’s why I don’t live with my parents, if you were wondering. Lol
Aizawa (and by extension Mic-sensei) know Shinsou lives in a children’s home. He can imagine there could exist some idle curiosity between the two adults regarding Shinsou’s living arrangements. Do they talk about it? When they watch him board his train after training with Mic-sensei waving him goodbye, do they theorize about why and how he was taken out of his parents' care? Is there pity, with coos shared among the pair that hopefully Shinsou’s parents or extended family will take him back in? That the teen could be forgiven for his transgressions?
[Shinsou]: I don’t really remember what happened. But I think my parents were gonna say it was an accident and that I fell asleep in the bathtub. I don’t think it was planned, though. Mom had some sort of breakdown. She was always really stressed out. I wasn’t a good kid.
He still—
He doesn’t get scared at the sound of rushing water. He just gets a little sweaty. His heart rate spikes for only a moment before calming. He doesn’t like the idea of his head going underwater because he doesn’t like his hair getting wet.
(The same way he isn’t scared of a belt unbuckling, or loud footsteps, or sudden movements, or raised voices, or dishware breaking, or the smell of mom’s perfume, or the brand of shoes dad wears, or the sound of loud sighs, or locked doors, or dirty dishes piling the sink, or an empty fridge, or the smell of alcohol, or the taste of soap, or shadows moving under the door, or the dark, or being touched, or Aizawa and Yamada, or his given name being spoken aloud—)
[Shinsou]: I do know dad stopped her and took me to the hospital. Idk if he wanted to save me or if he thought I was already dead. I don’t think he ever really liked me. I was definitely unconscious. There was an investigation. I can't remember anything else.
And he isn’t sure he wants to recall any of it. His body certainly doesn’t, growing numb and small at the mere thought, urging him to flee to the other side of the Earth.
There isn’t a benefit in remembering. Or dwelling. It’s in the past and done. Keep moving. Move on.
[Shinsou]: I know it could be worse, and that I shouldn't take having a place to sleep and being fed for granted, but I don’t really like living at Rusan. I’ve lived there since I was eight and I’ve screwed up a lot. I’m really trying to be better but it's hard and I don’t know what's gonna happen when I age out, but a lot of the time I feel like I don’t have a future.
That’s… rude, isn’t it? Because that brings into question Mic-sensei’s abilities as a teacher, Aizawa’s abilities as a mentor and UA as an institution, to wallow miserably about how bleak he feels tomorrow is, like a wailing infant.
Always so thankless. Here he is, a student of one of Japan’s top schools, with a literal mentor, and he still finds room to complain.
[Shinsou]: I think my mom and dad only had me because that’s what they were supposed to do? Graduate, get married, pop out a kid and live happily ever after. But I ruined everything. Like always.
And shouldn’t prospective parents be entitled to a well behaved, respectful child? As a reward for being the ones to usher in the next generation, sacrificing so much in order to nurture a whole new person into becoming functioning members of society. He had been told, repeatedly, that everything they did, they did for him and his well being. Verbalized by his parents, teachers, and Rusan home staff alike.
(Mom just had a lapse in judgement. Her life was derailed being forced to take care of a little cretin that never listened. Dad just needed to let off steam. Discipline is keeping a child accountable and demonstrates that an adult cares. Parents always love their children.)
He needs to unclench his hands as he feels his grip tighten on his phone, fingers curling inwards and ready to snap the device in two. The screen’s already been cracked long ago and he knows if he were to break it the home wouldn’t replace it, so he relents. Regardless how tempting throwing the thing at the wall is. He needs to break something. He’s bad. He’s always so bad.
[Shinsou]: Sometimes
Actually, bludgeoning his head against the wall until there’s nothing left of him but a red pulp is a most tantalizing prospect.
Aizawa-san’s presence, so close yet a galaxy away, is a dangerous lure that has him continue typing.
(Water setting his lungs alight, an animalistic, desperate thrashing, hands tightening in his hair and an unyielding prison he is unable to break free from, he’s dying, he’s dying, he’s—)
[Shinsou]: Sometimes I wish my mom did drown me. It would have been better that way for everyone.
But he doesn’t live in an ideal utopia. He exists to be a cautionary tale for others first before dying young. He can only hope that Aizawa and Mic-sensei could impart a prayer for him when he finally keels over because he’s always so fucking selfish.
[Shinsou]: I think you and yamada would make good dads
Delete, delete, delete—there are so many things fundamentally wrong with Shinsou. He can't say that. He'll be put into a straightjacket if he did. He’s never going to be normal, he’ll always be some misshapen thing that forever burdens others. Like a cancerous growth that needs to be surgically removed.
He should delete Aizawa’s number. Dig a hole and bury his phone, regrettably lament that he lost it, and adapt without it. That would be the selfless thing to do. He powers down the device and stashes it into his pocket, hoping it’ll somehow disappear, as he rubs his face vigorously enough it feels like he’s trying to rearrange his features.
A sigh, attempting to vent all the clutter out of his mind, and Shinsou glumly looks at the man seated next to him as the teacher takes a sip of coffee from a mug. Said mug, while clearly functional, has an oddly irregular surface; bumpy, with numerous indents and an uneven, almost wriggly handle. There is a crudely painted cat on its exterior, sitting and staring at the viewer with large almond eyes, and speaking to an unartistic hand.
Shinsou clears his throat, croaking like a toad, and thankfully his voice doesn’t shake when he speaks.
“Why’s it so lumpy?” His voice is flat and monotone. “Your mug.”
Aizawa-san spares a glance at his mug before meeting Shinsou’s gaze. “It’s handmade.”
Shinsou scoffs. “That’s what they tell you in order to sell an overpriced piece of crap.”
“It was a gift.” Aizawa-san drawls, and then appears to chew on what to say next before: “Hitoshi made it in art class, when he was thirteen.”
His first thought is to raise an unbelieving brow and ask, ‘and you kept it?’
Instead, he feels himself frown, and needs to consciously rearrange his face to remain blank.
“Oh.” Shinsou mumbles, refusing to name the feeling festering inside him as if his stomach is a bubbling cauldron. “I guess you’re the favourite then.”
“He made a bird keychain for Hizashi, so yes I suppose I am.”
That’s not pride beneath those words. It’s not.
As a teacher, Aizawa-san is probably the subject of many shitty gifts from students over his career. The only reason the stupid mug is still in use after three years is because Other Hitoshi is the man’s literal ward and lives with him. As Present Mic, Yamada-san probably has a storage locker full of needless ‘gifts,’ it’s just social decorum to use the stupid cockatoo keychain, probably already forgot about it.
Shinsou averts his gaze, his nails suddenly very interesting in all their chewed up glory.
“I made a cat in that class, out of clay.” He mutters. “A classmate broke it though.”
There was no reason to say that. There’s nothing to gain from saying that, other than appearing like some petulant child as the memory resurfaces. Of his classmate, who had a quirk that enabled her to make strong gusts of wind from her breaths, made his (stupid, ugly, worthless) clay cat smash into the wall and break into pieces.
Aizawa disregards his paperwork to give Shinsou his full attention instead, and Shinsou has the sudden urge to scream.
“On purpose?” The teen nods, when he should be shrugging and shelving this useless conversation instead. Aizawa-san continues. “That was wrong of them, and should not have been allowed to happen. That is inexcusable behaviour.”
What-the-fuck-ever.
“It was an ugly cat anyway. S’not a big deal.”
It really isn’t. Wasn’t. He knows he shouldn’t be mumbling but the blood rushing through his ears is beginning to sound like a running water faucet.
“And you still don’t deserve to have your belongings purposefully destroyed, Shinsou. That wasn’t right then and it isn’t right now. You’re allowed to be upset about it, even years after the fact.”
“I’m not upset.” He snaps, gnashing teeth, like an elastic band that’s been stretched and finally breaking. “I don’t care. You don’t have to baby me.”
It’s done and over with and cannot be changed, just move on. Stop being so stubborn. Move on.
This would be easier if he had a cigarette to inhale. He started stealing those when he was ten, surreptitiously pocketing sticks from the satchels of home staff and being the little Villain everyone knows him to be by using Brainwash on some random passing adult to quickly purchase himself a box, or making the cashier go limp and blank-faced as he scurried in and out like an oversized rat.
It’s a habit he’s—mostly subdued (or tried to), ever since entering the age of criminal responsibility at fourteen and having had many a visceral tale regaled to him by teacher and home staff alike of what would happen to him in prison. But there’s an alleyway on his school route that still possesses his inconspicuous stache all wrapped in a plastic bag, hidden away behind a ventilator barracked with plant overgrowth and sufficiently out of sight, a sanctuary for his ready indulgence when needed. One that saw increased use when he was banned from cycling.
He’s done the research, he knows a lungful of smoke reduces stress and improves his mood, because nicotine increases neurotransmitters and brain wave activity and—it also makes him look all cool and mysterious when taking a drag in an alleyway.
He imagines Other Hitoshi had his ass tanned to high hell because there’s no way he hid it from either Aizawa-san and Yamada-san. His clone’s voice is just as deep as his, so therefore Shinsou is relatively sure it's a habit Other Hitoshi likewise reveled in.
“I’m not trying to ‘baby’ you, Shinsou.” Aizawa sighs, the man’s voice delicately weaving his family name as opposed to his given name, making Shinsou’s mouth dry up. “But I need you to know it wasn’t fair, it shouldn’t have happened, and the student who did it should’ve faced disciplinary action.”
Well isn’t that just wishful thinking. Shinsou was made to clean up the mess, throwing all the cracked shards into the garbage and being the only kid to go home without an art project. It doesn’t matter. The water faucet isn’t running.
Shinsou rolls his eyes. He sneers, “Yeah, well, consider it received, loud and clear, captain. Stop overreacting, Sensei. Makes you look stupid.”
A smack to the head. Pulling by his ear. A snarl to stop being so disrespectful. Washing his mouth out with soap. Sent to bed without dinner. Do Aizawa-san and Yamada-san stop or at least pause when Other Hitoshi starts crying, begging for it to stop? The water faucet isn’t running.
“Shinsou.” Aizawa drawls slowly, a warning, dragging a hand through his own hair instead of fisting it in Shinsou’s in order to haul him to the closet. “I would appreciate it if you didn't start picking an attitude with me. If you need space, use your words.”
Yeah. Use his words. But a person can’t speak when their head is being held underwater. Shinsou doesn’t have some water-based quirk.
“… Whatever.” Monotone, flat, good, good, good. There’s some cat hair collecting beneath the table that should get swept away. The water faucet—
—is running. In the kitchen. Quick, on and off and most likely rinsing some utensil. Filling his mouth and nose and burning his lungs.
“Sorry.” He mumbles because Aizawa-san is still looking at him. Up. Walk. One foot in front of the other. The door is locked, checked once, twice, thrice. The irony isn’t lost on him that he retreated to the bathroom for sanctuary even as the world turns into plastic like he’s walking through a dollhouse.
He pats himself with detached limbs, moving as if trying to put out an invisible fire before remembering he has no cigarettes on his person, no quick fix, there’s never a quick fix; he’s in too many scattered pieces to ever be stitched back together, all malformed and ugly. This is not the pieces of a puzzle that can be neatly put back together but instead fractured glass.
Colour drains away as everything desaturates like a sponge wrung dry, and his periphery darkens as if he wears blinders. In, and out. In, and out. He counts—one, two, three—in and out, all through his nose and he feels air enter his nostrils and trace to the back of his throat. His lungs expand and his ribs are made of gelatin, his head a balloon that floats to the ceiling as a coolness grazes the rear of his thighs; he leans against the counter with his pants down to his knees, and he has a clear, direct view of the bath at the opposite side of the room.
He’s twelve again, back in junior high, unscrewing the razor of a pencil sharpener except this time he only has his dull nails raking up and down, up and down, scouring across his field of scars and up and down. An irritated, blotchy red blooms as his nails scrape out endless streaks the length of his thighs, his nails attempting to dig deeper with each rake up and down, up and down.
The water faucet is not running. The bathtub is empty. He can see it.
Up and down, up and down. In and out, in and out. A buzzing beneath his skin like a hive of bees rattle in between his flesh, vying for freedom and clustering just under his scars.
The water faucet is not running. The bathtub is empty. He can see it.
Up and down, up and down. In and out, in and out. Blood rushes in his ears and sounds like a thunderous waterfall, his body in need of full drainage like a butchered corpse strung upside down with a river of crimson swirling down the drain.
The water faucet is not running. The bathtub is empty. He can see it.
Up and down, up and down. In and out, in and out. Colour returns slowly, like diluted watercolours as his head reattaches to the rest of his body. The concrete blocks weighing him down to the bottom of the ocean release and he floats to the surface.
No water. He’s in—Aizawa-san and Yamada-san’s apartment. Their bathroom. His bathroom. Everything is dry, including himself.
In an alternate reality. Right. Other Hitoshi. Ugh.
His thighs really sting. No blood was drawn, regrettably, merely his skin turned to a rosy red and emanating a heat with a series of long claw marks drawn up and down. The lack of bright crimson beading to the surface speaks of a bare canvas in need of an artist’s brushstroke, but retrieving a razor needs looking at the mirror and there’s no energy left inside him to do so.
Shinsou merely sits for a moment. His body is filled with cotton and awareness trickles forth like a bustling mound of ants crawling up his skin, his eyes a pair of stones and he counts the scares littering his thighs as if he counts sheep; he loses count, too many are overlapping to make an accurate number.
Bathroom. Dry. Alternate reality. Dinner. Shinsou takes a moment to remember reality. It’s another moment longer before he rightens his pants.
That was just—zoning out, for a bit. Sometimes that happens, because that happens to everyone, everyone spaces out, it’s nothing special because everything is fine, just dandy. Everything is dry.
Shinsou is marveling at just how wonderfully dry everything is when there’s a knock on the door.
“Shinsou?” Yamada-san’s voice calls through the door. “You’ve been in there for a while bud, you okay?”
It has been a while, hasn’t it? A full day, maybe even a week, actually, of just sitting there like a hunk of festering meat.
“Yeah. M’good.” Shinsou responds without inflection, rubbing his face. “I just wanted to be—alone. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that, little listener. We all need a little alone time. Can you open the door, please?”
It’s fascinating that the door remains inert. The man doesn’t even slide it a fraction, despite the fact the blond undoubtedly knows how to either lock-pick or smash a door down.
He’s tempted to continue sitting and let the silence stretch, just to see what Yamada-san would actually do. Would he use his quirk? He wouldn’t even have to commit to a full yell to get Shinsou to scramble.
Shinsou shuffles towards the door and unlocks it, opening it to greet a tenderly smiling Yamada.
“Hi.” Shinsou says, because that feels like the correct thing to say.
“Hi, buddy.” The man responds softly, looking Shinsou up and down, apparently intent on staring into Shinsou’s soul. “You alright?”
Shinsou idly muses that he’s been asked how he’s doing more times in the last twenty-four hours than in the last decade.
He hums the affirmative, nodding, his thighs still possessing a lingering prickling but still not red enough.
“Is dinner ready?” He asks, staring at the space between Yamada-san’s eyebrows. At least with food he won’t be expected to speak.
“Yeah.” Yamada-san nods. “We’ve got ourselves some prime gyudon, if I do say so myself.” The blond tilts his head, considering Shinsou. “You up eating with us all at the dining table or would you prefer watching some TV while you get your snack on, chilling out with the cats in the living room instead? Either one is groovy with all of us, so no need to break a sweat about it.”
This is—a little familiar. Sent away from the others to eat, becoming one with the background, made unobtrusive and ignorable. Just usually done with a firmer voice and without the allusion of a fake choice.
“I don’t really watch TV.” Shinsou says, because it’s true and he’s not thinking about the image of himself taking part of a meal with the likes of Aizawa and Mic-sensei all done in the comfort of a shared roof, because that’ll turn the water faucet back on and it’s way too soon for that.
“Got a whole collection of movies ripe for the picking, if you don’t feel like channel surfing. Or you can eat with us, Shinsou, it’s really no biggie, little listener.”
Shinsou shrugs, resisting the urge of shutting the door and locking it. The thought of sitting at the dining table is one that instantly eradicates his appetite. He’s already ruined the evening by merely existing. He falls back to what he knows could never fail him.
“I’ll watch something with cats.” Shinsou says, as cats are smart because they prefer being dry. “If that’s okay.”
A smile, something genuine. “‘Course it is. And an excellent choice, little listener.”
Yamada-san steps back, coaxing Shinsou out and the teen trudges into the hallway and towards the living room. He expects to hear the adult follow, but instead Yamada-san’s treads inwards to the bathroom and closes the door. Straining his ears suddenly, Shinsou hears the faint sound of the man opening the mirror cabinet, and the teen subsequently redirects all his focus to the cat tree.
Notes:
Listen, it’s too easy bullying Shinsou. He’s free real estate being a background character! I can project! I can give him a horrible backstory! And no one can stop me!!
Also whoops, turns out I gotta re-do the entire end section. 🥴 Part three will be posted when it's ready.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 3
Notes:
Listen. I did not plan for this to be 50K+ words. I swear!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I have a question.” Shinsou hedges at the kitchen’s boundary, quietly observing Other Hitoshi set the table for dinner as Yamada-san fusses over the final toppings for the food.
“Well, make a tune and we’ll sing-a-long, dearest listener.” Yamada-san says, sparing Shinsou a glance over his shoulder.
Shinsou rubs the back of his neck. “Is the general consensus that I’ll… disappear before tomorrow, or something?”
Fade into some glittering fairy dust, or whatever. Snap out of existence like a popping balloon. That would be convenient, which consequently makes Shinsou automatically assume it won't happen and that instead he is required to climb Mount Fuji and throw himself into the volcano in order to go back—‘home.’
Aizawa-san lumbers to lean against the opposite wall from Shinsou. He says, “We are working with that assumption, yes. That this is temporary and will sort itself out sooner rather than later. That you’ll return on your own.”
‘Hopefully overnight’ goes unsaid. A sentiment shared by all and Shinsou hopes he won’t be ruining any more dinners for the… trio.
“And…” Shinsou says slowly, the mere thought beginning to spoil his appetite. “… if I don’t…?”
Aizawa continues, voice never faltering. “Then you stay here until we, with the combined efforts of the school and whatever outside resources needed, figure everything out. You will never be alone, and returning you safely to your reality becomes our number one priority.”
“Right.” Shinsou dips his head in a single nod. The answer does nothing to appease the shame gnawing at his ankles. He treads forwards when Yamada-san beckons to retrieve his beef rice bowl. He mutters, “Guess the universe must really have it out for you, if it’s gonna force you to deal with two of me.”
Truly a fate he wouldn’t wish upon even his worst enemy.
Yamada-san actually scoffs. “Nonsense. You’re a delight. Sure, a very unexpected guest but still welcome all the same.”
Like a lit match thrown onto gasoline, the choice—and rude—words of telling Yamada-san to shut up (accentuated with a curse word or two) nearly erupt from his mouth. His survival instincts thankfully decide to function for once, because his departure from this reality would have been expedited by Aizawa-san personally escorting him from existence if he swore at the man’s husband in his own home.
“You don’t even know me.” Shinsou grouses lowly instead as he secures his bowl, standing before Yamada-san and it's not a glare he bestows on the man but it’s not quite a blank stare either.
He and Other Hitoshi just share the same face. That’s it.
Undeterred, Yamada-san continues with some really misplaced confidence. “I know enough that I can comfortably say you’re a good kid, Shinsou.”
And, as is Present Mic’s habit, he raises his hand upwards to either card his hand through Shinsou’s hair or give him a pat on the head.
But—
This isn’t Mic-sensei, who had ceased any touches when he noticed (immediately) how Shinsou silently tensed at any contact, only restarting when Shinsou gradually relaxed in his presence after weeks of extending the olive branch.
This isn’t Mic-sensei, who will periodically keep a stache of liquorice on his person despite disliking the candy, specifically held for Aizawa and then later adding an additional packet after Shinsou mentioned also sharing an appreciation for the salty confectionery.
This isn’t Mic-sensei. It’s a hand coming precariously close to his head too fast.
His body reacts on its own. It’s only by virtue of cradling his dinner that he doesn’t automatically employ a block that Aizawa taught him, and it’s only a slither of social decorum that restrains him from outright flinging the food in the man’s face before taking flight.
Shinsou jerks backwards, ducking his head and creating space between him and Yamada-san. All air is subsequently sucked out of the apartment in a nanosecond, Shinsou’s shoulders growing taut and rising to his ears as he barely succumbs to the urge to curl in on himself and become as small as an insect.
“Don’t—“ lips curled and teeth bared. “—Don’t touch me.”
Instinct tells Shinsou to forgo the dinner and to simply run. Run until he physically can't anymore, until each breath feels like fire and his legs collapse from underneath him, and then from there to crawl until he finds a suitable hideaway for him to decompose in.
Fight, flight, freeze—Shinsou’s self-preservation has always been so contradictory. Every inch of his muscle tenses and his body is turned to stone.
Dismay colours Yamada-san’s face that he quickly schools into an apologetic wince. The man steps back and raises palms in surrender.
“My bad. Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Shinsou purses his lips because otherwise he may fall folly to uttering a choice insult at the man, and he can’t eat if he has the muzzle strapped to his face. With shoulders still hunched, Shinsou quickly looks down, trying to avoid how the combined weight of each occupant staring at him feels like his skin is sloughing off his bones.
He quietly saunters to the living room with his chopsticks and bowl, securing a place on the couch and with his previous hunger now curiously absent.
If he wakes up the next day and he’s still… here, then he’ll save everyone the trouble and take a one way trip to Aokigahara.
It’s—
An awkward dinner. The food is good, although cannot be properly appreciated because it all tastes like ash in his mouth. There’s a certain strain that weighs in the air like a cloud of smoke, eased as the time goes on but never fully dissipating, while the TV drones on about the evolution, domestication and the historical and cultural significance of cats throughout the world and, yadda yadda, all things he already knows. But acceptable white noise regardless.
It’s an uphill struggle to get through the gyudon. His stomach is tied into a stubborn knot that is impossible to dislodge, the food sinking like a stone through oil. His slowness in eating isn’t due to savouring the food, but instead done out of necessity, as after each swallow he needs to physically wait until his stomach decides to settle. He’s already had the food traverse back upwards and cause him to gag dangerously once, and that was already too much. He concedes to operating in slow motion. Slow and steady, or whatever.
The idea of leaving leftovers produces nausea, but the thought of continuing to eat also generates nausea, as does the knowledge of Other Hitoshi, Aizawa-san and Yamada-san all eating together at the dining table; like tar bubbling in his gut. He resolutely ignores their muted conversations. He deserves an award for not smashing the bowl against the floor when he inadvertently catches the mention of the trio visiting the zoo. ‘ Again,’ plans to visit the zoo again apparently, just how quaint is that. Shinsou’s never been.
(Unbidden, the thought of pushing an unsuspecting Other Hitoshi into the habitat of some very hungry wolves surface. Shinsou idly entertains the idea for a second before his persistent queasiness seeks his attention.)
The trio finish their dinners just as he has eaten a measly half. He hears the collection of dishware and the, the.
Starting of a water faucet (flinch, freeze) no, stop, stop.
He’s outgrown that. He’s long outgrown that. They’re just rinsing the dishes, stop being so stupid. He won’t have years of reinforcing his skin into an unyielding iron shell for it all to suddenly collapse in on itself just because he zoned out like some drunkard in the bathroom.
He loses any vestiges of his appetite. As much as he is loath to waste food, he hates the idea of immediately vomiting it all out more. He sets his half-eaten bowl on the coffee table, listlessly staring with deadened eyes at the TV screen showcasing different feline related mythologies from around the globe.
Aizawa-san is the one who approaches to raise an eyebrow at him, asking if he’s still eating and subsequently collecting his bowl when Shinsou shakes his head numbly, sudden regret staking itself in his heart as the bowl is taken away and thoughts of when his next meal will be starting to besiege his thoughts. The man murmurs that the leftovers will be kept in the fridge if Shinsou gets hungry again, and Shinsou merely stares ahead, because any leftovers are always eaten before he can even think of indulging himself.
Eventually: the adults settle at the dining table with an array of paperwork to slog through. Yamada-san has turned on the radio, the weaving of music faintly wafting through the air from the direction of the kitchen, providing a buffer between the adults and teens and a cover for each pair to privately converse under.
Evidently something Other Hitoshi is keen to capitalize one, as he moseys his way towards Shinsou and sinks down onto the couch cushions next to him. The TV is presenting something about lions now.
“So.” Other Hitoshi starts after a moment, turning his head sideways to peer at Shinsou. “Does the name Okazaki-san mean anything to you?”
Shinsou spares him a glance. “I have no idea who that is.” He says.
Other Hitoshi nods, an understanding crossing his features as some assumption is apparently proven correct.
“She’s my caseworker.” Other Hitoshi explains, and Shinsou has his own realization fall into place. “She’s the one who set this whole shindig up.”
‘Shindig,’ that’s definitely a result of spending too much time with Present Mic. It sounds very unnatural spoken in his voice and Shinsou manually keeps his face blank so as to not visibly cringe at it.
He raises a brow at his other self. “Did she drop you on their doorstep with a note ‘please take care of me’ taped to your forehead?”
He wonders if this Okazaki-san even exists in his reality. And if she does—
Well, where is she and what is she doing, and can Shinsou send her a strongly worded letter?
Other Hitoshi’s lips quirk upwards. “Just about. She introduced herself to me one day and it felt like only a week later I was told to pack my things because I was moving out of Rusan. I had only one measly backpack of clothes and that was… it.” He rubs the back of his neck, words wistful and expression faraway. “All the staff lined up outside and waved goodbye when I got shuffled into Okazaki-san’s van and carted off to the welfare office. It was there I first met Aizawa and Yamada. The whole, uh, handover was pretty quick and sudden, because it was an emergency placement.”
Just as Nezu-san said. And just as it was a statement that nicely hollowed out his insides back in the Principal’s office, it expertly cleaves him in two straight down the middle and has him crumble to dust.
At least this time a response comes easy to him. “Just taking out the trash.”
He thinks the curled lip he has on his face is one that others would readily interpret as a sneer. And maybe it is, but Other Hitoshi has, at the very least, not been made into some delicate flower.
“Yup.” Other Hitoshi pops the word out as he grins, before scooting himself closer to he whisper snidely, “Just don’t let Yamada or Aizawa hear you say anything like that though, they’ll give you an entire lecture about ‘maintaining a positive self image’ and ‘self respect.’ They’re both hardasses about that, absolutely no sense of humour.”
Shinsou huffs a breath of amusement, lazily rolling his eyes. “One time I said ‘shoot me’ and Mic-sensei threw a fit.”
That’s doing the man a disservice but it’s not like Mic-sensei exists in this universe so it’s fine. The exact scenario was that Shinsou had the delight of running extra laps when his limbs were already on fire from sparring with Aizawa during a training session, so Shinsou had groaned out his discontent while laying in the dirt, dead exhausted.
Mic-sensei had squawked in response, before ruffling his feathers and declaring: ‘Aw don’t bring down the vibe, little listener, let’s get on groovin’! Move those legs, let’s dance, c’mon, c’mon c’mon!’ The man subsequently hoisted a protesting Shinsou one-handedly and then coaxed the teen to do his laps.
“Sounds about right.” Snorts Other Hitoshi, and there’s probably some story there for Shinsou to investigate but instead, he backtracks to something that’s been nagging at him.
“She’s still your caseworker?”
“Yeah, though I haven’t seen her in about five months.” Other Hitoshi says mildly as he scratches his cheek. “When I first moved in we’d have weekly meetups. Y’know, to make sure everything was smooth sailing and that I hadn’t made Aizawa and Yamada regret their decision yet. Meetups at home or at school, as a group or one-on-one, surprise and scheduled meetings… Sometimes just ten minute check-ins or an hour long talk about stuff, like how I’m doing, are Aizawa and Yamada nice, is school going okay. Eventually that turned into monthly meetings, then once every three months, then twice a year and whatever, because eventually I… settled and she didn’t need to do so many check-ups anymore.” He shrugs, shifting in his seat. “Honestly, I still don’t know how she managed to do all that. She’s good at her job, sure, but it took me a long while to realize she actually… cared. About my well-being. And didn’t just want a successful placement because it’d look good for her, as an advocate for foster care.”
Huh.
That’s something someone does with cats and dogs. Because an animal shelter can be a stressful environment. Always overcrowded and loud and understaffed. A transitory period.
Shinsou feels his brows pinch, glancing quickly at where he can just peek at the adults still sitting at the dining table and conversing amongst themselves.
“Nezu-san said you were their son.” Shinsou says slowly, quietly, delivered flatly but a question stirring beneath. He’s not entirely sure he can name the feeling that’s starting to rouse, like embers slowly growing into a roaring fire. It tastes remarkably similar to a little thing called resentment, all smoke and ash, done on Other Hitoshi’s behalf.
Other Hitoshi mirrors him; subtly, he looks to the direction of the adults to ensure there's no risk of being overheard. This open concept floor plan really sucks suddenly.
“I’ve been with them for years, it’s basically permanent.” Oh, so it’s an obvious sore spot. “Legally I’m their—kid. They’re responsible for me.”
Hah, well if that were true he wouldn’t be stumbling over his words while resolutely glaring at the TV like some pouting child.
Reality checks aren’t always nice, but they are necessary. Maybe that’s why he was sent here.
“Legally, you’re their ward.” Shinsou says, trying not to be unkind but unsure if he succeeds. Words have meaning. There’s a difference. “By definition foster care is temporary. The welfare agency that set you up with them can take you out anyday, y’know.”
Though, seeing as it's the kid with the Villain’s quirk and certifiable pain in the ass who's miraculously been paired with the only two adults patient and willing enough to keep him law-abiding and compliant… Removing him from this household would be counterproductive. But, even if it is a glowing review on that Okazaki-san’s résumé, it still doesn’t change that there exists such a possibility all the same. Other Hitoshi needs to live in reality, even if it's bitter.
(It’s a hollow acceptance. Bones turned to stone and a void where his stomach should be, that even after having him since he was eleven, that neither adult apparently sought to… finalize. Make it official.
But—that shouldn’t matter. Because both teachers still welcomed him in their home regardless, still sheltered him for years, so what if it’s just essentially an over glorified teacher-student consociation. It doesn’t need to be more, they already do so much, too much, for him.
Shinsou really never figured out how to stop being selfish.)
There’s a blur of movement that snatches the attention of both teens: Maru leaps onto the couch with an adorable ‘mrrp’ to lay contentedly upon Other Hitoshi’s lap, his clone blessed with the opportunity to stroke a happy mound of fur at his leisure and it does not stir jealousy to well inside Shinsou. When he glances at the cat tree and confirms that Haru is asleep and therefore unavailable, he is not disappointed.
The TV shows a scene of lions quenching their thirst at a watering hole, the background music turned ominous at the reveal that crocodiles prowl beneath the surface. The radio strums the sound of some soft melody.
When Other Hitoshi speaks again, his words come as a murmur as he looks down at the cat he pets.
“It took me until I was fourteen to be okay with hugs.”
Shinsou thinks: maybe Other Hitoshi possesses some latent clairvoyant abilities or something, because he must know that Shinsou still isn’t okay with hugs, if he thought to share that useless factoid.
“It was Aizawa and Yamada who were the ones to, to give me that. They kept me even when I wasn’t easy to deal with. Took me years to get a grip but they never once said they’d ever give me back, or that I should be thankful that they decided to take care of me because one else would ever want to.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. Has Shinsou really sown the seeds of some righteous monologue?
Shinsou keeps his gaze ahead, apathetically observing the lions on the screen as Other Hitoshi continues to hum his little soliloquy.
“It took me two months to even speak a word to either of them. The first time I tried to run away was about four months in. I tried again a year later because coming back to a quiet home with cats and full meals and a room of my own was too much. It’s still too much sometimes, but they never lock me in my room or, y’know, the closet. I stole money from them because I got scared they’d take away food. They found out immediately, obviously, and instead of yelling or, or hitting me, they sat me down and we talked about it. I’m allowed to keep snacks in my room. They—I have an allowance.”
Isn’t that… rewarding bad behaviour? Surely Aizawa-san and Yamada-san know better. Some pertinent information is clearly missing from this story; a liar, a manipulator—Shinsou’s long been acquainted with such titles, spoken by his parents, teachers, schoolmates and home staff. So it must be true if constantly repeated by multiple sources.
Also is that implying Other Hitoshi eats in his bed? That’s just inviting ants to crawl in the bedsheets, what a slob.
“One time I scraped my knee by accident and Yamada got all fussy about it. It felt nice. To be looked after like that. So I broke my finger by slamming a door on it on purpose to see if he’d do it again.” Shinsou spies a wry smile on Other Hitoshi’s face. What’s with this guy and breaking fingers? His clone continues. “He was extra fussy that time, and he's not stupid despite the hair, he figured out I did it on purpose. Had a nice, long sit down after that, complete with some crying from both of us. Kept saying I didn’t need to do that, that they're always there for me. Even Aizawa got a little teary eyed.”
It’s odd; Shinsou feels as though he’s on the receiving end of a confessional. Topical, because that must be a lie, because (as dad used to say) why would grown men cry? Especially Aizawa.
“I used to—smoke, too. But I'm guessing you already knew that. When I got caught I thought they’d put out the cigarette against my wrist or something because they were really unhappy with me. But they promised they’d never punish me out of anger when I first moved in, and they kept it. They lectured me for like an hour, which sucked, they told me to write an essay about the dangers of smoking, which sucked, put me on a nicotine inhaler to help with the cravings, which—didn’t suck, and made me start jogging to help with quitting, which really sucked at first but I’m glad they kicked my butt in gear, ‘cause that helped me start exercising properly. In the moment, it felt like they did all that because they were sadists, but they… care. They did all that because they care. It took me a long time to figure that out.”
Shinsou feels his jaw click from how he clenches it. The adults are seemingly (hopefully) blissfully unaware as they hold some indistinct conversation amongst themselves from what Shinsou can discern from where he sits.
Other Hitoshi keeps his hands busy with the cat on his lap, sunken into some daze, and these words must be more for him than it is for Shinsou.
“I used to pick fights with them about everything because they also made a promise of never getting physical, and I just—it had to be a lie, right? Or something they couldn't keep. One night, when Yamada was at the radio station, I started some stupid argument with Aizawa, which—I ended up Brainwashing him. Because, because I’m the Villain, right? I make slaves. I needed to show them that. I wanted to make him do something, to prove I’m just, dangerous, and that even if he has Erasure that doesn’t change anything. But the longer I looked at his blank face I just felt... Awful. So, so awful, like I was getting sick. There was no vindication. I just wanted to die right there. Finally figured out I was trying to jeopardize the single best thing that could ever happen to me for, for no reason, because I’m always just screwing everything up.”
Shinsou would really like a cat in his lap right about now. That would soothe the fraying of his nerves, curb how he wants to leap from the couch and settle his hands across his imposter’s throat and squeeze.
(Holding a smaller body under water as he thrashes—)
He’s a bad person. He isn’t proud that he’s a bad person, but at least he’s self aware.
“I accidentally released Brainwash, because I just sorta, y'know, had a complete breakdown. It wasn’t pretty. But he let me cry into his chest like a giant baby, despite the fact I used my quirk on him.”
There’s a marauding male lion currently killing and cannibalizing a cub on the TV.
There’s a shift of purple in his periphery, and like a magnet, Shinsou turns to meet Other Hitoshi’s gaze. There’s a determined glint in his eyes, perhaps more accurately described as the world’s most undiluted sense of stubbornness, as Other Hitoshi speaks next with a certainty born with the dire need to convince not only Shinsou, but himself.
“I’m not just—some charity case for them. They promised I could stay with them, even after I graduate, and they don't break their promises. They want me.”
A low, steely voice at the ready to rebuke any challenge.
Yeah.
Shinsou hates this guy. Talk about word vomit.
There’s been many moments wherein Shinsou looked at his reflection and wanted to rip his own eyes out. An acrid taste would always well up between his gums, pulling his lips back and sharpening his teeth, beckoning him to lunge and rip and tear his image apart, with claws and fangs and choking on blood. Too many days he’s spent imagining grabbing clumps of his own flesh in his palms and pulling everything apart, to turn himself into an indistinguishable wet rag of red.
It’s weirdly refreshing to have all those feelings be pointed outwards for once, directed at a person seated next to him who grows more and more unrecognizable by the second.
“That’s all really nice for you.” Shinsou says, empty and as inviting as an open grave. “As soon as I turn eighteen I’m gonna be homeless.”
Other Hitoshi at least has the courtesy to grimace at that. He averts his gaze back to the safety of the cat on his lap with a pensive look. Fucking coward.
Whereas Shinsou—
Thinks. Because the thoughts are inescapable once verbalized. He knows the statistics: greater risk of poverty and homelessness, minimal chance of higher education and employment, higher mortality rates, guaranteed and irreparable issues. He really should apologize to Aizawa, for ultimately wasting his time. Shinsou knows he won’t make it to twenty. The aspirations for Heroics were always meant to be fruitless because they were always meant to be impossible; it was never meant to get this far.
The home did always like him best when he was doing his chores. Shinsou wonders, and has wondered before, if there lies a possibility of being able to convince Rusan to keep him as an unpaid caretaker who could sleep in the doghouse. Just—until he can find something. A job or two. Amass enough money that he can stay at a capsule hotel for a few nights or months or, or, or. Whatever. Until he snags a Hero Agency. Until he can be safely assured that his roommates will have their needs sufficiently met without him.
Other Hitoshi’s voice breaks through his thoughts, words spoken slowly.
“A lot of Pro Heroes have emergency guardianship licences.”
Well that’s… true, sure. There’s been plenty of careers that have been ruined because of it, akin to straight up kidnapping children and oftentimes difficult to justify in court.
“Are you seriously implying I should act so pathetic that, what, Aizawa or Mic-sensei will feel sorry enough to take me in? Like a sick stray cat?” Shinsou scoffs.
“You probably don’t even need to act, really.” Hey, what the fuck is that supposed to mean— “Because you’re the black sheep at Rusan, right? A lot of the staff and kids didn’t like me when I was there. Must be miserable there for you.”
It’s fine. Things could be worse. Things have been worse. He doesn’t care if he’s the chosen deviant. The one sent to the pyre to keep others warm, because he understands the logic: people naturally want to maintain a positive social identity and in order to uphold cohesion, those that are atypical are shunned or made to conform. This allows for stability in the group. Harmony. It’s all basic fucking psychology. He gets it. Shinsou knows he’s an excellent learning tool in the home. Better he than any of the other kids.
“And just because you have a bed and they feed you doesn’t make everything else okay. You…” Other Hitoshi sighs, a deep and weary sound. “You deserve a home too, one that you aren’t afraid of.”
Being preached at by his own voice is an exercise in misery. Shinsou is growing an appreciation for the muzzle with each passing second.
He hisses through his teeth. “I’m not afraid. Fuck, you’re so annoying, shut up already.”
It’s the bare truth, flayed open like a skinned corpse, because he’s not afraid. He’s just tired.
His waspish retort was spoken louder than intended. Not a shout, but speaking at normal room volume suddenly feels like he’s shrieking. He immediately winces, and quickly looks to where the adults are situated in order to discern his current odds of survival. (How fast can he get to the door, a window, the balcony—) His breath automatically hitches and he nearly chokes on his own spit once his eyes meet the gaze of a Yamada-san who is leaned backwards in his seat in order to peer in their direction with an expression of subdued curiosity.
Shinsou quickly ducks his head and glares at the credits that are rolling on the TV screen, shoulders hiking to his ears and still as a statue.
Both teens are quiet for a moment. No adult comes lumbering to wash Shinsou’s mouth out with soap. In his periphery, Shinsou is well aware that Other Hitoshi is analyzing him.
“If anything,” his clone starts, prompting Shinsou to turn to face him. Other Hitoshi’s face mirrors his voice: somber. Pitying. “Aizawa and Yamada will help if you tell them about aging out of Rusan. They’ll give you resources. Hook you up with a place to stay. Help you get a job. They won’t leave you stranded, I know we both know that.”
They—
Would. He knows this. Aizawa and Yamada could help him find his footing like he’s some stumbling newborn fawn that has a bear ready to charge at it. He just needs to properly rehearse his words into something presentable, something less metallic tasting in his mouth.
He shrugs, his body a tight coil of barbed wire, and suddenly unable to trust his voice.
He wonders:
When Other Hitoshi was given his very own capture scarf and he casually tested the weapon’s strength and thickness in his hands as Aizawa went on his spiel on how to use the bindings, was his first thought also how well the cloth could be used as a noose?
Simply nodding along as he listened to his mentor speak while lackadaisically twirling the scarf into resembling the braided likeness of rope, silently thankful for the easy acquisition so he wouldn’t need to purchase or steal his own rope or cord for when the time came?
It’s what Shinsou thinks of now. His neck has become suspiciously itchy, an invisible choker encircling his throat and enticing him to reach upwards and scratch, up and down, up and down; to grab fistfuls and tear out his esophagus.
He’s still seated on the couch, practically merged with the cushions and having lounged for what feels like days as the sky outside darkens, the hour nearing 10 PM. He had been idly amusing himself when Maru decided she would wrestle with his sock clad toes, and his mistake was when he turned in his seat to observe Other Hitoshi and Yamada-san share an exchange that has something ache, deep and sharp, in the impossible depths of his chest.
“You should be headed to bed, mister.” Yamada-san murmurs with lips quirked upwards as he lazily neatens some of Other Hitoshi’s hair by gliding his fingers through the teen’s purple rat’s nest. “It’s a school night and a growing boy like you needs those eight hours of snoozin’ so you can get to jivin’ real nice and early.”
Other Hitoshi huffs. “Yeah, yeah. Lemme just read one more chapter, then I’ll hit the sack.”
“That would’ve been a very reasonable compromise if I didn’t know one chapter of that book of yours wasn’t like a billion pages.”
“Are you really going to deprive me of giving my brain a workout? Research shows that reading helps lessen the chances of me developing Alzheimer's in the future. Is that what you want? My brain atrophying?” Other Hitoshi places his hands on his hips as he raises his brow. “Also you’re the one who said I should read before bed to help me sleep, remember? Looks like you could do some reading yourself, Yamada.”
The cat is doing little to soothe the physical tangle of misery that is currently manifesting as a black hole inside him, devouring any paltry semblance Shinsou still had at pretending to be human. He feels rotten. Decaying from the inside out. Falling apart in blackened, moldy clumps.
He’s helpless; he continues peering at the pair.
Yamada-san pats Other Hitoshi’s head, who fittingly doesn’t flinch away. “My favourite little brainiac. Go ahead and scram before I change my mind, yeah? And only one chapter this time, please.”
Shinsou hates the obvious familiarity. He hates the fondness laced in Yamada-san’s expression and voice. He hates how Other Hitoshi smiles. Just the edges of his lips turned upwards, small and insignificant and so, so—ugly and disgusting and Shinsou wants to take a knife or a razor or anything sharp and cleave into a million little pieces. His teeth grind against each other, the sound of rocks scraping together sounding in his ear as his jaw clenches.
He hates his messy hair, he hates his corpse-like face, he hates his hideous smile, he hates his swallow skin, he hates his Villain’s quirk, he hates this suffocating apartment, he hates the useless cats, he hates Aizawa and Yamada—
He hates—
Yamada-san leans forward and connects his lips to Other Hitoshi’s forehead. It’s done barely in a second, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it action, but it has the strength of an earthquake that carves open the ground beneath Shinsou. An impossibly deep and mangled crater forms, mirroring exactly how a freshly bleeding cut looks like as magma bubbles to the surface and scorches the surrounding land.
That’s so stupid. Isn’t that—that’s something people do with toddlers. Babies. Kittens. A kiss on the forehead, that’s so belittling, come on.
“Off with ya.” Yamada-san imparts as he pats Other Hitoshi’s shoulder and the teen turns to stride towards the hallway where his room lies. Maru trots off as Shinsou is heedless to her presence.
Aizawa-san chooses then to trudge inwards from the direction of the hallway because obviously, Shinsou needs to be subject to more saccharine bullshit. As his other self and Aizawa-san cross paths, Shinsou overhears Other Hitoshi murmur a goodnight, prompting Aizawa-san to ruffle the teen’s hair with a heavy hand and causing Other Hitoshi duck his head with an utterance of ‘knock it off,’ carrying no real heat.
So. Logically. He knows. That Other Hitoshi, with having both Eraserhead and Present Mic mentoring him for far longer than Shinsou has even known either man and having won the Sports Festival, would probably best him in a one-on-one. Even just physically, no quirks and no accessories, just teeth and claws and fueled by a very primal sense of desperation. But even knowing this, Shinsou still envisions the image of himself with skin discoloured and limbs twisted in unnatural angles with the whiteness of bone peeking through blackened flesh.
He glares at his lap, before remembering to school his expression into something blank and unreadable while unclenching his fists. In and out. He just needs to breathe, a surprisingly arduous task because it feels like he’s been locked in a too-small cage. Or a dark closet. Or underwater. In and out.
Yamada-san and Aizawa-san both direct their attention to him as they discuss setting out a spare futon in the living room, aiming to rearrange the furniture in order to give him the most space. Shinsou tries to enter autopilot as he automatically stands to aid the adults, disregarding their words that he doesn’t need to do anything and to instead relax.
The problem is this:
The first time Shinsou seriously considered ending his life, he was eight years old.
Which makes sense, considering it was the same year mom decided she would give Shinsou some personal swimming lessons. He’d been so close then—the abyss quite literally staring back at him before waking in the unfamiliarity of a hospital room with an array of tubes stuck to him. The faces of strangers all swirling together as a warped kaleidoscope; doctors, nurses, police, detectives, ‘child protection services’… a multi-headed hydra where a new face appeared when one head withdrew.
All one-sided conversations and platitudes, because while Shinsou’s memory may refuse to properly cooperate when attempting to recall the event, he does remember struggling to speak for—weeks. Months. Words jammed his throat like a mass of twisted thorns which felt like water rushing inwards to invade his lungs, and a stutter soon bloomed to further distort his speech that he would not be cured of for at least a year afterwards. Because the task of using his voice box after the incident always resurfaced every instance wherein his teachers, schoolmates and parents all either flinched, froze, or turned to fury at the assumption that Shinsou was attempting to use his quirk, so instinctively his throat simply tightened and speech became halted.
A new home, a new school, a new life. It was a dull return to familiarity that was almost a relief, when one evening after school and walking to his new home of Rusan, a trio of older schoolmates scattered his belongings into the dirt before unceremoniously tossing him into the dark, foul smelling dumpster after duct taping his mouth. If only they also taped his nose shut as well, truly a missed opportunity, then he could have peacefully suffocated and had his body sent to the landfill instead of laying limply in literal garbage.
When he had eventually reached the train station and waited for his ride with his torn up schoolwork, his school bag decorated with footprints stomped into its fabric and smelling like days old food, he thought: a train strike would kill him pretty quickly. Faster than drowning, anyway. Body strewn across the tracks from one end to the other and made into some clumpy series of red streaks.
But life has always been distinctly unfair, because even though he shouldn’t have been born and so many people’s lives would be better if he ended, the train station possessed barriers walling off the tracks with gates that only opened when the train came to a full stop. It also didn’t help that there was a station worker who kept leering at him.
His reward for his cowardice then was to fall apart in one of Rusan’s bathrooms later that same evening. Because it would take him years to even have the courage to step in a bathroom without starting to tremble, let alone listen to running water without having his breathing suddenly seize with a body made of ice.
The problem is this:
He is in Aizawa-san and Yamada-san’s bathroom with the intent to shower, but nearly throws up when he turns on the faucet. Using baths has been out of the question ever since his parents, but he’s apparently deteriorated so severely in the span of a scant few hours that even the shower spigot spilling is enough to have his body scrambling back like he’s been struck at by a venomous snake.
(Which really just goes to show that ‘talking about it’ is such a farce, because all that accomplishes is just resetting everything.)
He needs to release the water in a trickle, sidestepping the thunderous sounds of a full torrent. He uses the sink to lather up the soap and a sponge, before sitting on the stool to wash himself and foregoes any soaking entirely.
He only belatedly remembered that bathing with the lights off would be considered odd, and therefore sits with a clear view to muse upon his assemblage of scars that has rendered his skin rough and ridged.
Steadfast companions, each and every tally. His own personal, years-long art piece that is his to admire. He traces the leathery patches marring his skin; he likes them. They’re his. A means of self-expression comparable to tattoos and piercings, right? Certainly therapeutic.
In a fog, the shapes of his memory slowly materializes:
He is nine years old and lying flat in the street, eyes closed and smiling at the idea of a car, or better yet a truck, running him over.
He is ten years old and learning to appreciate the smoothing nature of smoke in his lungs, hoping to turn his innards into shriveled, blackened husks and suddenly dropping dead on the sidewalk as he searched for Japan’s suicide hot-spots online.
He is eleven years old and successfully climbed the chain-link fence that encircled the school’s roof, only stopped by a teacher who had a very inconvenient levitation quirk, before being scolded for reckless behaviour.
He is twelve years old and has freed a razor from a pencil sharpener, feeling an elation he’s never felt before and thinking red could be his favourite colour.
He is thirteen years old and staring at rope hanging off some random person’s work truck and deliberating if he could quietly steal it, already charting multiple places he could peacefully hang himself.
He is fourteen years old and locked out of Rusan for coming home late, deciding to retreat to the alleyway where he safely hid his cigarettes and crouched down with a blade ready at a naked wrist, wondering if he could cut deep enough.
He is fifteen years old and has lost the Sports Festival, thinking what was the point now—
(He is fifteen years old and has met Aizawa and Yamada. He is sixteen years old and is mentored by Eraserhead and Present Mic.)
The problem is this:
His wrists are too bare and he hates it, but the razor have been removed from the cabinet.
He’s clad in Other Hitoshi’s spare pajamas, a simple navy-blue set, and nestled in his futon like it's a cocoon. Phone long since powered down and TV off (because screen-time before bed is bad, it affects your sleep, according to Yamada-san, the tyrant), Shinsou was content to simply observe Haru using her scratching post from where he laid as he waited for the pair of adults to finish their muted conversation from the direction of the dining room, and then presumably call for lights out.
Instead, Shinsou stares up at an Aizawa-san who is crouched next to him, as the teen still attempts to digest what the man had said.
Aizawa-san takes Shinsou’s blank stare as an invitation to repeat himself. “Would you like me to stay?”
Aizawa-san, as the man had explained, has a patrol scheduled but has not yet changed into his Eraserhead getup because he has, unfathomably, decided to make Shinsou the deciding factor.
“Why would I want you to stay?” Shinsou flatly asks, considering Yamada-san has made it clear he was staying.
The man raises a single brow. “Because you enjoy my delightful personality.” He says equally as flatly, before his voice adopts an oddly gentle tilt. “Believe it or not, your comfort is actually our priority, Shinsou. You’ve had a very strange, stressful day, and if having a familiar face helps you at all, then my patrol can be shelved for now. You are not a nuisance to me, Shinsou.”
Shinsou squints at the man.
He supposes this is a once-in-a-lifetime sort of opportunity. Observing the universe fix the aberration in real time as he presumably winks out of existence and is sent hurtling back to his own reality. Assuming this all rights itself as he sleeps, which—yeah, hopefully.
Though Shinsou would hardly be able to dive into unconsciousness if Aizawa-san and Yamada-san were hunched over him like a pair of gargoyles, silently watching him as he breathed and counting down the seconds.
Shinsou scoffs. “What, you don’t trust Yamada-san to keep the evil twin from an alternate universe from burning down the apartment while you’re away?”
Yamada snorts in amusement, seated at the dining table with a laptop open and doing whatever. “Oh ho, that’d make for a fun story, I should write that down. Squeeze that in somewhere in the Facts or Fib segment and keep the listeners guessing. I like it!”
At least someone’s getting a kick out of this.
“Allow me to rephrase:” Aizawa-san restarts, scratching his stubble. “Would you feel more comfortable knowing both Hizashi and I are in the apartment with you as you slept, ready to help you with whatever you may need at any time, or are you fine with me leaving?”
Annoyance prickles Shinsou’s skin. He doesn’t need his hand held. This is such a waste of time that literally benefits no one except for a prospective criminal that might prowl in Eraserhead’s territory.
Shinsou’s gaze inches downward upon Aizawa-san’s scar present beneath his right eye, and the teen is suddenly made to envision the USJ Incident from the perspective of this reality.
Oh, he thinks. This must be a side-effect of some sort. Because Other Hitoshi probably transformed himself into a high-pitched, whining dog with separation anxiety that would chew the furniture at the mere thought of Aizawa-san leaving his sight after the man’s close encounter with death. It’s an open secret that keeping an eye on the man was why Present Mic needed Eraserhead to co-commentate at the Sports Festival, after all.
Shinsou curbs the urge to roll his eyes.
“Keeping the streets safe is a little more important, I would say.” Shinsou huffs as he readjusts the covers of the futon. “Present Mic might not be as cool as Eraserhead, but he probably has enough ways to bore me to sleep.”
Yamada-san snickers. “I’ll have to put that in my accolades section on my HeroPedia page.” He sighs, and while Shinsou is not looking at the man he does hear his seat creak with how he leans back in his chair. “And I do know how to sing a sweet little lullaby or two to get’cha off to snoozin’, if you need my services just give me a holler, little listener.”
Okay. That was spoken way too sincerely. He needs to get out of the danger zone.
Shinsou brings the covers up to his chin and presses his face into his pillow. “I just wanna sleep.” He mutters, the perfect balance of pathetic that should win him enough sympathy points.
Aizawa-san gives him a nod and runs a heavy hand down his face, before seemingly entering autopilot as he reaches out to—
Well, presumably to give Shinsou a head pat or two. Because that’s what Aizawa-san does, apparently, ruffle heads just as Present Mic is oft to do, messing up the hair of certain purple haired nuisances.
Aizawa-san rediscovers his senses before he can make contact, however. He quickly retracts and says, “Goodnight, Shinsou. Remember to bother Hizashi if you need anything.”
The man rises and his knees click as he does so, causing him to grunt. As Aizawa-san silently treads out of sight, Shinsou glowers at the empty space in front of him and is staunchly not thinking about a head pat, because that’d be stupid.
Suited up as Eraserhead, Aizawa-san left after he and his husband shared a quick, chaste kiss.
And Yamada-san retired to his room after asking if Shinsou was alright (yes), if he needed anything (no), and if that changed to feel free to seek him out at any hour of the night, that he’s just down the hall and will be awake for a while longer but to wake him regardless if he was asleep (sure. Whatever).
The apartment is awash in darkness. Quiet. Peaceful, some might say, except Shinsou is seemingly never going to be able to sleep again, because he’s been awake for hours.
Which isn’t really anything new, but it’s made noteworthy considering the whole ‘hoping this debacle resolves itself’ hypothesis. Any harmony weaved in the stillness is mired by the eerie smog that encompasses the apartment; unfamiliar shapes in the darkness, faint sounds of unknown neighbours through the walls and ceiling, the silent, near imperceptible tread of Yamada-san acting as a ghost and checking up on him periodically. The man is surprisingly light on his feet when he chooses to be, but Shinsou’s body is so high-strung and so painfully aware of even the displacement of dust, that Yamada-san’s tip-toeing is cacophonous in the shadows.
Shinsou nearly reflectively punches a cat that comes to sniff at his face. The pressure set upon his body feels as though a herd of horses is actively trampling him. The very air grows more oppressive with each breath, an unbearable weight that entices his body to spring like a mousetrap and, and, move. Move, run, flee; anything, to find sanctuary and disappear.
The front door. The windows. The balcony. He needs—
He needs space to breathe. Desperately.
Respite comes in the most unlikely of places: footsteps, but clearly not Yamada-san. Louder, less intent on masking his slow, unsteady tread, and Other Hitoshi waddles from his room. His steps become louder, not in the direction of the bathroom that is across from his room but instead further inwards, stepping into the living room as an unbearable presence in Shinsou’s space. The steps pause. Shinsou doesn’t breathe. He envisions his own body beaten and broken and forgotten on the ground. After an age wherein Shinsou’s body winds up like a spring ready to leap from the futon and scream, the steps re-continue before eventually receding. Other Hitoshi withdraws into Yamada-san’s room. Straining his ears and lungs twitching with his halted breath, Shinsou hears the bedroom door open slowly, before latching closed.
Shinsou supposes it was inevitable that his clone was also left with the swirlings of disquiet from the uphill battle that was the previous day. He imagines, far too easily, the image of himself meekly stepping towards the adults’ room with hunched shoulders, appearing smaller than he actually is and guided by the childish instinct to petition… comfort. Reassurance. Head pats. A hug, something he only grew to accept at fourteen. Luxuries he knows he can freely indulge in. Maybe even be entitled to—
Shinsou needs to. Leave. He can’t stay here. He can’t let this opportunity go to waste.
He rises slowly, ensuring the blankets do not rustle. He crawls out of the futon with gradual movements, moving at a snail’s pace before positioning himself into a crouch and then to a stand, ignoring his sudden impulse to neaten the futon.
Wait. Listen. He doesn’t breathe; no footsteps come marching towards him, no angry voices are raised and no fists grab his head so harshly that his scalp tingle.
Aizawa’s stealth training is very useful. Shinsou internally sends his thanks, when he safely makes it to the entryway.
He pauses only to don a pair of slippers. He rationalizes that since he is already borrowing clothes, he might as well ensure his toes are at least somewhat protected against the elements.
It is eon when he unlocks the front door. He hears the beating of his heart reverberate through his ears, his slow breaths migrating in and out through his lungs and he waits.
Quiet. Dark. No alarm sounds.
Shinsou opens the door just enough to squeeze himself though, closing it slowly behind him and—
He exhales. Long and deep. A bird freed from its cage.
He stands with his ear to the door a moment longer, calculating if he needs to run from any oncoming shadows in the dark. When nothing beyond the door sounds, Shinsou retracts.
His first thought is to seek refuge where he hid his cigarettes, before recognizing dejectedly that such a place does not exist in this reality. He could find a train station, take the first train and leave at its final stop, then simply pick a direction and walk, but he doesn’t have his train pass. He could chance the impossible and scale UA’s walls to disappear in the school’s woods, but he doesn’t have his binding cloth.
The choice becomes obvious.
Turns out, access to the apartment building’s rooftop is easy.
Shinsou doesn’t know what time it is, but presumably it’s already the early morning of the next day or around midnight. The sky is still a blanket of darkness, stars only a faint twinkle as the lights of the surrounding cityscape dilute their shine.
The air is crisp when inhaled, tickling his lungs and cool upon his skin. He’s not at risk of frostbite, but a sweater would hardly be disagreeable. Not that it’s needed nor does it matter, the outside air is a welcome reprieve just as is the view of the sheer drop from over the ledge.
He is leaning on his crossed arms that lay upon the rooftop’s waist-high wall, staring contently into the glittering horizon of an urban landscape that never truly sleeps. It is a comfortable twenty stories up. Shinsou is nestled neatly at a height that would sufficiently break his body apart if he were to go on a date with gravity.
It’s peaceful here, really. Quiet, but not suffocating. A sanctuary free from judgement.
Room to think:
It makes sense, in a convoluted, abstract way, that this could all resolve itself when he sleeps and later wakes from a coma, or something. That he was knocked out by some nobody’s quirk that has let him live out a—particularly miserable delusion. A fantasy wrought by piecing together the torn up tapestry of… certain wants, certain errant thoughts, that he was too weak to fight against and is now shackled by.
In the grand scheme of things, Shinsou knows he hasn’t actually known either Aizawa or Yamada for very long. That, really, by definition his helpless, runaway thoughts about having his own room under a roof shared with a pair of certain adults who are explicitly not his parents and the festering envy that rots inside him at seeing such a reality, can all be constituted as being… parasitic. An oversized leech that gorged itself at the earliest opportunity, with Aizawa and Yamada finding themselves in the unfortunate situation of becoming the target of his wayward, needy little feelings.
It was irresponsible of him to allow it rankle as it has, like an ulcer that has perforated his stomach. Which is probably part of the reason he was even brought here in the first place, to experience first hand that such flights of fancy are all just a mirage. Unreachable. Impossible. Can and will only result in a very specific type of gut-wrenching misery. An attachment formed on an unrealistic hope that is fundamentally selfish.
The only real word to sum it up is that it’s inappropriate. ‘Disgusting,’ if he were to verbalize it. Malapropos if he was feeling especially fancy.
(Divine retribution. It's what this whole mess must be, because he was meant to die in that bathtub.)
It’s bad, is what it is. Just bad. And Shinsou is introspective enough that he knows how to swallow his shame and admit that he’s so. Fucked.
There is literally no conceivable way to come back from something like this. When before his idiot feelings could be pulled down, smothered and made manageable, now those same intrusive, puerile thoughts are inextinguishable; too clear, too real. He’s had a taste—it was bitter and served only to choke him, but it’s been absorbed down to his damn cells and completely inescapable. A part of him. He—
He wants. It’s painful. It’s bad. It’s ugly. So. Fucked.
Shinsou brings his palms to his eyelids and releases a breath through gritted teeth.
Other Hitoshi can seek out Yamada-san in the middle of the night at some ungodly hour and be welcomed. He’s been okay with hugs since he was fourteen. He’s been living with the pair since he was eleven.
Maybe the whole ‘fixing itself while he slept’ actually requires some personal effort. Shinsou peers downwards to the murky depths that is the ground below, a sidewalk canopied by trees. Empty, quiet. Can he really be blamed for this line of thinking? Death is always called an eternal slumber for a reason. Maybe there won’t even be a clean up to deal with, maybe the universe or the powers that be will graciously tend to his splattered body like scraping gum off the sole of a shoe.
Maybe he’s already dead. Maybe he’s finally grown a pair and did what needed to be done.
And the… cosmic soup that is his consciousness that constitutes his soul just jumped from one reality to the next. Maybe he needs to continue that cycle until he can find a reality wherein he can successfully fill in that niche. Wheedle his way into the Aizawa-Yamada home and maybe learn what true peace could feel like.
It’d be all too easy to mount the rooftop’s little wall and take a nosedive. It’d be quick. If he lands it right, it’d also be painless. He’d need to let the air rush past him, to fall, in order to test out his hypothesis of quantum immortality.
Either way, regardless if this idea of soul-jumping is correct or not, it’d neatly solve everything. And there really is a certain dignity in taking authority over his own life.
Twenty stories. A sidewalk with his name on it. No hurdles to jump through. Nice and simple and quick.
In and out. The air is cool and crisp as it enters his lungs. Inhale, exhale. It’s not cold enough to see his own breath. In and out. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, standing at attention as the air changes, and a pair of eyes have found their way to stare intently at his back.
Figures.
Shinsou rolls his eyes. He sighs as he retracts from the roof’s wall and turns to face Eraserhead. He silently startles, because the man is closer than he initially thought; two long strides and Aizawa-san would reach him, but the man is still as a statue when their eyes meet.
Fight, flight, freeze. Good to know they both apparently have the same, inconvenient response.
Aizawa-san is the one to thaw first.
“Trouble sleeping?” He asks mildly. His expression betrays nothing, as does his stance; the picture of nonchalance.
Maybe the indifference is genuine as opposed to a mask, actually. A song and dance Aizawa-san must be used to, with having to live with Other Hitoshi.
“That tends to be the result of having insomnia, yeah.” Shinsou snarks back, one hand casually set upon the wall as a comfort, a reminder, that oblivion lies just beyond.
(Yeah, yeah, logically Shinsou knows he wouldn’t even make it a hair before some binding cloth snakes around him. But it’s the little things.)
The moonlight glimmers on Aizawa-san’s hair and illuminates the man’s face clearly, allowing the teen a (mostly, since the man still has a disheveled fringe) unobstructed view of how Aizawa-san’s face softens in real time. Is that a learned skill? Did he receive training on it?
Shinsou has always appreciated the man’s starkness. How he doesn’t pussyfoot or try to sweeten his words needlessly. Straight and to the point. The words that come out Aizawa-san’s mouth are straightforward, but melded gently in a way—that Shinsou has to manually sift through his memories in order to remember if such a tone has ever been directed at him before.
“Are you thinking of hurting yourself, Shinsou?”
Not a single crumb of judgement. No ire kindling just beneath. No disgust ready to warp the man’s features.
And Shinsou—
Hates it. He doesn’t like receiving hand-outs. He doesn’t like not earning his keep and he certainly…
Doesn’t want to be reminded of the people he’s related to at the moment. Not when he’s already heard Aizawa’s voice speak his given name effortlessly and just naturally exiting his mouth.
A tightness grows in Shinsou’s throat. Selfish, right. He’s always been selfish.
“Can you—” He starts, words coming out like sandpaper. “Do you… Can you call me Hitoshi?”
Maybe he can… Just pretend. Just for a moment. That it is just he and Aizawa and no one else exists in the world.
Aizawa’s lips pull upwards in a small smile. Sad and knowing, piercing straight through what shriveled up heap that are the remains of Shinsou’s heart. Because obviously the man would see right through Shinsou like he’s a clear plain of glass and the teen thinks he can taste bile creep up the back of his throat like an oily eel slithering through his throat.
“Hitoshi.” The man says and Shinsou releases a small, shuddering breath. “What do you need me to do that can help you?”
Keep saying my name, take me out of Rusan, give me a room, let me cycle again, promise me the impossible, turn around and leave, let me fall—
“I need you to not lie to me.” Shinsou’s shoulders go slack, years worth of exhaustion suddenly sweeping him away like an avalanche. “Please.”
“Of course.” Aizawa nods. “How about we try this: You ask your question, then I ask mine. And we keep going for as long as you need.”
That feels… precarious. Like treading over a frozen lake that could crack open at any misstep. A certain unease creeps across his skin, like an army of spiders, the thought of enacting a jagged wall to encase himself in is a temptation he nearly takes. It would be an easy choice to make, an acrid refuge he knows rarely fails him, to press his lips into a thin line and set his gaze into a glare while gripping at the ledge for safety
But Heroes must take risks. Heroes will always face difficult decisions during the course of their careers, choices with no easy answer or those that will be painful but necessary to do, as Aizawa once told him.
Shinsou licks his lips. He nods at the man’s request as he shifts between one foot to the other, words dancing across his tongue and overcrowding his mouth. Thoughts bubbles, a collage of the past twenty-four hours replay in high definition in his mind’s eye and he… needs to know.
“So, do you, like, foster cats too?”
An awkward stutter, which isn’t ideal, but the words are carried well enough.
Aizawa blinks at him. Nothing on his expression suggests he is surprised at the question, but Shinsou will take the triumph, no matter how small and insignificant.
“On occasion.” The man responds. “We are registered foster carers with the local animal shelter, and sometimes take in orphan kittens or cats recovering from surgery or illness. Haru and Maru are both very sociable and enjoy making new friends.”
Shinsou nods along. Okay. Makes sense. So that’s probably what planted the idea in their heads in the first place, the next big step, checking off the ‘goodie-two-shoes’ checklist. They’re married, adults with careers, and being both men means they have to go out shopping for a runt to add under their roof. Because that’s what married couples do, they have kids. Right? Right. The next logical step. A future Shinsou finds immense relief in knowing he’ll have no part of, because there isn’t a soul in any universe that would be irrational enough to settle with him and, more importantly, he won’t be around for when it’s expected of him.
Shinsou is sympathetic, though. He’s heard it all before; that having a kid is life’s most rewarding venture, the best investment anyone could make, it gives purpose to existence, happiness personified, et cetera. And yet here Aizawa and Yamada are, having chosen to take in a literal reject that’s really better off being culled. The lost cause they thought they could rehabilitate into becoming a functioning member of society, trying to be Heroes, but forced to face the ugly reality that Shinsou Hitoshi is a thankless, bottomless pit.
If his literal, real parents were brought to the brink—
They were doomed from the start. Should’ve stuck with the cats.
“Your turn, I guess.” Shinsou sniffs, rubbing his nose.
“Thank you.” Aizawa has got to stop with that tone, that face. It’s doing very embarrassing things to Shinsou’s heart. “Can you step away from the edge for me?”
Shinsou scoffs before he can stop it. Should’ve seen that one coming, huh.
“I wasn’t gonna jump. Just…” he grouses, because he was merely contemplating it. “... Needed to think. Needed space. Needed to appreciate the scenery.”
Shinsou accentuates the statement by spreading his arms to gesture around them, bumping his lower body against the wall as he leans against it.
Predictably. Aizawa has a reaction to Shinsou's movement. A quick intake of breath and the immediate sound of his foot scraping across the ground in preparation to run or jump or sling out his capture weapon. It’s a minute movement, done before becoming fully realized, and Aizawa still stands in the same spot.
Shinsou blinks at him. Aizawa, in contrast, doesn’t blink at all. Shinsou lowers his arms.
“It’s clear out. It’s nice.” Shinsou adds awkwardly, resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck. He kicks a foot out in front of him. “Would I have really snagged some slippers if I was gonna go skydiving?”
C’mon. Aizawa should smirk at that, it was pretty funny. And a pretty solid reassurance. Barring the fact Shinsou would simply line up the slippers neatly against the wall before doing a backflip off the edge, but that’s just some fun rumination, he wasn’t gonna do it. Really. Maybe. For science, mostly.
“I suppose I can’t argue with such sound logic.” Aizawa eventually drawls with a light hint of mirth. Good. Great, even.
The somber, tender expression befalling the man’s face is less great. As are his next words. “It was not fair that you were forcefully brought here, Hitoshi. And it is clear this whole situation was only exacerbated by Hizashi and I having clearly not done our due diligence to ensure you were comfortable, which resulted in you experiencing immense distress. And for that, I must apologize to you.”
This is weird. Everything about this is weird. Has been from the beginning, and Aizawa shouldn’t sound like that. Shouldn’t be saying those words. Shinsou’s the one that unceremoniously dropped into this reality, and he was hardly coerced into waddling his way to the rooftop.
Eraserhead is… Imposing. Stable. Reliable. Hero. Big enough for Shinsou to mostly hide behind. The man in front of him, face made soft whose words still echo in the hollow confines of Shinsou’s skull, appears uncanny. Eraserhead, yet with cracks forming on what was solid, steady ground.
At a certain age people stop apologizing. Just part of growing up. Shinsou’s never had an adult say the words ‘I must apologize to you,’ or any variation thereof. And certainly never without the belittling tone of insincerity. Because Aizawa was being serious despite being in his, like, thirties and well past that. Adults don’t do that.
It’s—weird. Everything is weird.
Alternate dimension, right. That’s the only explanation for how wrong-footed this whole situation makes Shinsou feel.
Aizawa continues. Soft. Tender. Weird. “I will not pretend to know how you feel, Hitoshi. But I assume you’ve felt this way for a long time?”
Try forever. Since he was still in his dad's freakin’ nutsack.
It’s a part of him. Sewn into his very being. He isn’t Shinsou Hitoshi without it.
“... It’s my turn to ask a question.” Shinsou mumbles, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Technically, you already did.” Aizawa smiles wryly and Shinsou wrinkles his nose at the realization that the man is right.
But not content with ending there, Aizawa demonstrates that his aim is to skewer right through Shinsou with something blindingly hot and sharp. The man clearly wishes to leave the teen in even more pieces than how he found him.
“You’ve experienced many horrible things, Hitoshi.”
Sure. One could say that. Shinsou is partial to the term ‘character building’ himself.
“Things no child should ever experience.” Okay, first of all, he’s not, not a kid. Shinsou feels his face beginning to twist as Aizawa continues. “And none of it was your fault. You’ve been dealt with cruel circumstances your entire life, and none of it was your fault, it is important that you know that.”
The man must have some sort of secondary quirk that makes his victims feel more and more miserable with each spoken word, because Shinsou’s body is starting to feel the weight of a mountain settle on his shoulders.
“You don’t know me. I’m not—” Shinsou rasps. “I just look like him.”
It’s painful. A cavernous ache that inspires him to lean backwards and have his body splatter on the ground, because this isn’t Aizawa. Not really. It’s just a series of useless platitudes sprung up because Shinsou is dawdling on a high rooftop in the middle of the night.
“You’re Hitoshi. I know you. And I know you're not a Villain. You were not born a bad person, and you never grew up to become a bad person. You’re tenacious, unwavering in the face of hardship, and still retain compassion for others despite the continuous injustices you face. None of that is easy. But you overcome it. You always overcome it.”
They’re useless, the words are useless, they’re not real. The man in front of him isn’t Aizawa. It’s not real.
“You were accepted into UA and participated in the Sports Festival with little to no support and done entirely by yourself. You still work into becoming a Hero even when the whole world is actively against you. That is no small feat. What you’ve accomplished is monumental, Hitoshi. And I’m sorry I haven’t told you that before.”
Not real. But it is spoken in Aizawa’s voice, gently woven through his gravelly cadence, and hearing those words in Aizawa’s voice is an inescapable black hole ready to leave Shinsou completely desolate.
Aizawa continues to twist the knife. “And there is not a single thing in any universe that could justify what your parents did to you, Hitoshi.”
And Shinsou is completely helpless. Floundering without a life vest. He can do nothing but stare as a burgeoning tightness in his throat grows like a fist squeezes his trachea. He scours Aizawa’s face, searching for any cracks that could possibly denote that his words are actually at their core indifferent, merely born from an impersonal script.
But the man’s face only reveals an expression of… mourning. A gloom of sadness that is impossible to fake and could suffocate Shinsou like there’s a plastic bag tied over his head.
Eraserhead shouldn’t look like that. He should be infallible with an expression of steely determination that signals the end of any Villain’s career. He can’t look like that. It’s not right. It’s not—real.
Shinsou keeps his palms loosely set upon the wall’s edge, ruminating on the rough texture against his bare skin in order to keep himself grounded. He needs to breathe. A Hero needs to build courage. He licks his lips, suddenly dry and feeling chapped.
“I don’t know if they ever loved me.” He deflates, shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of defeat. “They’d—tell me that they did. There were good days too and, uhm, sometimes I-I miss them. But… I dunno. Dad’s—“
Shinsou swallows automatically, the action physically painful as if his esophagus is stretched beyond capacity. He averts his gaze downwards, focusing on the pebbles present near his slippered toes as it feels like his vision darkens at the periphery.
“Dad’s quirk is, is Mind Meld. When he touches someone he can feel their emotions. If he wants to, he can, uh, make people feel things. Mostly his own emotions. He… I dunno. I don't think love is supposed to feel like that.”
(Submerged in a boiling pot and cooked alive; a stark, glacial disappointment encasing his body; the blooming satisfaction of a lineage continued, always tasting like plastic.)
But what does he know. It’s not like Shinsou is an expert. He could really go for a smoke right about now.
He shrugs and mumbles at the ground: “I can't remember when I didn't feel like, like this.”
It is merely who he is. There is no sense in attempting to change it because what would be left? How could it be worth it? He really, really, wasn’t meant to reach sixteen. Always wasting everyone’s time.
If only the ground beneath him would open up and swallow him whole. Or if a waist-high wall that wasn’t suddenly as tall as a mountain.
When Aizawa speaks next, Shinsou keeps his sights fixed downwards, gnawing on his bottom lip as the man continues.
“A parent is meant to nurture their child. Your emotional and physical needs are equal in necessity. And your parents were both unequipped and unwilling to provide for you. The fault lies with them, never you.” It feels as though he rubs pepper into an open wound, Aizawa must know that, right? Right? The man continues. “You have not had an easy life. It is a burden that no one, and especially at your age, should have to carry. You are not alone, Hitoshi, you have people that care about you. How are things at Rusan? At school?”
Shinsou toes at a pebble on the ground before kicking it. He releases his lip from his teeth, stopping himself from chewing a hole in his mouth.
“S’my turn, old man. Stop hogging the questions.” He mutters, raising his head to peek at Aizawa.
Aizawa, noticeably, hasn’t moved despite the fact he could have easily tackled the teen as soon as Shinsou looked away. There’s—something in that. A sprinkling of relief, maybe.
Aizawa dips his head in acceptance, coaxing Shinsou to ask his question. It takes another moment before the words build themselves.
“Why did you…” Shinsou twirls a wrist, as if trying to reel the question out. “... decide to bring in some… older kid into your home? Most people like babies. Less baggage, that way.”
A blank slate. An opportunity to create memories and, importantly, attachment. Natural attachment. Because parents don't pop out a ready-made teen from the womb, and no one wants another person’s trash.
Aizawa nods at the question, collecting his answer.
“Hizashi and I have always known we wanted to welcome an older child, specifically, into our home. We’re both high-school teachers, we have plenty of experience wrangling brats of all shapes and sizes.” Reminiscent of the slithers of light at the crack of dawn, Aizawa’s lips curl upwards slightly as an overlay of faint fondness creeps through, before receding with his next words. “And we have also always known that children in alternative care are at an inherent disadvantage compared to their peers. They are a vulnerable population that society at large tends to enjoy ignoring. We have the means to take care of a child or more. We knew we were ready. And if we could change the life of at least one child for the better, then why shouldn’t we?”
So. A saviour complex. Gotcha. Hindsight is 20/20. Very Heroic. The definition of selfless. Yadda yadda.
(He knows, he knows, he knows: he isn’t entitled to anything. Let alone someone’s home and their—care. Shinsou will be legally an adult soon enough. He needs to stop wallowing, he needs to stop floundering like a fish on land, no one owes him a single shred of anything. He needs to look forward and plan for the inevitable: search for what housing, financial, and employment aid could be available to him upon his eighteenth birthday. He needs to research the most ideal locations where he can safely retreat to in order to finally end it all.
He likes UA’s woods. They’re peaceful. Vast, practically its own nature reserve, easy to find a quiet, inconspicuous spot. Would Aizawa and Yamada appreciate a note? Just to thank them for everything. That they were the closest thing to…to…
Shinsou doesn’t know if he’d have the strength to even put it into text.)
Eleven. With them since he was eleven years old. Whereas Shinsou would stay for years and years longer and—
He supposes this should prove that (his) Aizawa, and likewise Yamada, simply don’t share the same parental aspirations as their trans-dimensional counterparts. They’d probably choose surrogacy, or find a reputable medical professional that has a quirk that could ensure their child shares their DNA, because that’s rational, that’s logical, the kid would actually be theirs.
He shouldn’t feel anything about that. He doesn’t have the right to. He wishes he could split open his ribcage to rip out his heart and crush it underneath his heel.
He instead harkens back to Aizawa’s last question.
“Rusan does… try. They’re just stretched thin most of the time. Well. All of the time.” A shrug. Shinsou sniffs. He raises an arm to rub the opposite bicep, envisioning the texture of his scarring. “... I wasn’t a good kid. I was always making trouble, and… was pretty difficult to deal with. I’m better now, but I kinda burned bridges before I even crossed them. They needed to be harsh with me because otherwise I wouldn’t listen, and it just sorta. Stuck. And—sure, I know some of the staff and kids just don’t like me because, y’know, Villain, but I’m… used to it.”
Life isn’t fair. How many times has he been told that, Shinsou idly wonders.
And Aizawa should already know all that. Considering his ward was the exact same. Picking fights, misusing his quirk and running away, just embodying a headache.
Whatever. Two more years. Then he’s on his own, and maybe it’ll be then he’ll learn to be properly thankful for what he had.
“Hitoshi.” Aizawa says, some bizarre mixture of gentle yet firm that Shinsou didn’t know existed. It sufficiently brings the teen back to the present, Shinsou not even noticing that his own eyes started to glaze over.
Aizawa continues, resolute.
“You were a traumatized child. You still are a traumatized child.”
That’s… such a strong word. Shinsou feels his nose wrinkle as disagreement paints his features because that’s a word to describe. Victims. Of severe mental/emotional stress or physical injury. People who need Heroes to save them.
(People that Mindjack, Shinsou’s hypothetical Hero name as bestowed to him by Yamada one random afternoon for his hypothetical Hero career, could provide aid to. Because Shinsou could—will?—be the Hero his younger self needed.)
Heedless, the man carries on.
“You were failed by your parents, and then you were subsequently failed by the very system meant to keep you safe. There is no such thing as a ‘Villain’s quirk,’ you were never destined to become one, and being treated as lesser and beaten by the very people meant to provide for you is wrong. Plain and simple. I don’t care if you acted out or were a brat, that justifies nothing. You should have had your trauma treated, not added to.”
Shinsou very quickly realizes he doesn’t particularly like that word being attributed to him. Mindjack can’t be broken glass, he has to be reinforced steel like, like Eraserhead. Unbreakable, unflinching, unyielding—the sound of a water faucet running means nothing.
“Whatever. Doesn’t matter anymore, I’m sixteen, not a kid.” Shinsou huffs indignantly.
He’s not a crybaby. He doesn’t want to be useless.
Aizawa raises one unimpressed brow upwards. “Age of maturity in this country is eighteen, so until then, you’re legally a minor, also known as a kid. And your frontal lobe doesn’t develop fully until twenty-five, so until then, you’ve got the brain of a kid. You’re a child, whether you like it or not, Hitoshi.”
Shinsou gives the man a scowl, but judging by Aizawa’s muted amusement, it isn’t very effective.
“Well, how about the other kids? I’m not the only one with a tragic backstory. Go make ‘Aizawa’s Home for Troubled Teens’ or something. They’ve got issues too for you to fix since apparently that’s your hobby. They…”
All embers of righteous frustrations are quickly snuffed out. What’s left is the smoke of hopelessness settled deep in his lungs.
“They’re just kids too.” Shinsou finishes with a mutter. They were all sent to Rusan for a reason.
It’s a moment before Aizawa speaks again. “Present Mic had a very successful campaign on raising awareness for Japan’s orphaned and institutionalized children. Pressured enough government officials for enough time which resulted in many homes throughout the country getting a proper boost in their funding, providing much needed renovations and the ability to take on more staff, as well as spearheaded a sponsorship program for many kids in need.” An unfriendly smirk grows. “And a certain underground Hero did his own internal investigations in order to bring the mistreatment of children to the forefront of the media’s attention.”
So what they say is true. People really don’t care about things until it affects them personally in some way.
“Cool.” Shinsou nods, because that is cool, that is great. It’s just not real, for… for him. “That hasn’t really happened for—me. Present Mic is always pretty busy, so. Whatever.”
That might be edging too close to whining territory, and it’s also not entirely true. Rusan replaced the old fridge a year ago, so that’s a plus.
(He isn’t owed anything, he knows this. And he needs… he needs to find someone with a quirk that’ll erase his memories because how is he meant to continue, after this?)
Aizawa’s face twists. Probably the closest thing to despair Shinsou ever wants to see on the man. “Speak with them, Hitoshi. They would take you seriously. They would listen, and they would believe you. Do you trust them?”
Does he? Implicitly. That’s the problem.
The gyudon still in his stomach is turning into a rotten, moldy pile of refuse and asking to be expelled through his mouth in the form of projectile vomit. That’s gotta be some primal survival instinct passed down to him from his ape ancestors.
Does he trust Aizawa and Yamada? Yes. He’s terrified.
And he’s a coward, because Shinsou quickly (desperately) diverts without an ounce of grace.
Like a dam breaking: “How come Nezu-san said he’s your son?”
Distantly, Shinsou is aware that that’s probably rude. But being mild-mannered has long since jumped off the ledge and splattered on the ground as soon as Shinsou stepped foot through the roof access door.
“Because he is.”
Spoken like a fact. With the same confidence as asserting that the sky is blue and the grass is green.
Shinsou thinks he should be angry. To contort his features into a scowl and maybe even hiss something capricious, sheltering beneath the warmth of an acerbic fire.
Instead, his eyes are stones in their sockets and becoming devoid of anything, with a body that feels as though it sinks through the Earth.
“You said you wouldn’t lie.”
“And I am not lying to you. He’s my son, just as he is Hizashi’s son.”
Aizawa speaks with an assurance as stable as solid ground. Therein lies none of the need to build courage in verbalizing such a thing, none of the gracelessness that his other self possessed because Aizawa has no need to convince himself. There is not a single ounce of doubt for the man to consider, because he believes what he says wholeheartedly.
Shinsou feels his brows crease. “Then why haven’t you made it official?”
Aizawa speaks next with words that come out knifelike, a real sense of frustration bubbling to the surface and a suggestion that this is an argument that has happened before.
“I don’t care what it says on paper, and neither does Hizashi. He’s ours.” The man takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly and then drawling out: “There are certain… officials that think he should be sent to live with an estranged extended family he’s never met simply because they share blood. It’s been an asinine hurdle to jump through, despite how clear from the beginning our intentions were to adopt.”
Adopt. Intentions to adopt. Explicit use of the A-word. And Aizawa is being completely serious.
“Oh.” Shinsou blinks dumbly, feeling as though he is floating. “Well. You should tell him that, y’know. He’s, like. Super insecure about it.”
They really do want—him. Him, not Shinsou. But they’re the same person, but they’re not, but they are, and Aizawa and Yamada want him.
Yamazawa. Aida. Zawayama? Merging the kanji of the men’s names can spell out ‘swamp mountain.’ That has character. That has personality. He likes that. It’s not uncommon for married Heroes to keep their original family name as opposed to taking another or mixing kanji, all for safety or marketing reasons, but ‘Shinsou’ is so…
(A tapestry of scars, the urge to jump, the rushing of water—)
…Would his better self take their name without hesitation like he would?
Zawayama Hitoshi—so fucked. He’s just so unbelievably fucked. There are no words in any known language that can accurately describe just how thoroughly fucked Shinsou is.
“... Thank you for telling me.” Aizawa slowly imparts, before sighing and rubbing a hand down his face. He fixes Shinsou with something forlorn on his face. A melancholic understanding that acts like a dark cloud.
Still, his words are gentle. Tired, sure, but genuine in their tenderness. “It’s clear that you hold a fondness for your Aizawa and Hizashi. It’s an honour I can assure you they’re aware of. The fact that they have earned this from you tells me that it is something that is shared. Neither Hizashi nor I are in the business of stringing a student along and giving them false hope. We both decided to give you training because we both believe, we both know, that you are a kid with clear potential. That you can and will make a great Hero. You are not a bad person, Hitoshi, and you have people that care deeply about you.”
Shinsou still leans against a very easily scaled wall that has a precarious drop just on its other side that’d result in a broken body. Aizawa is just. Saying all that. Because he doesn’t want to clean up the remains of a dead teen that shares the face of his—son. His son who has been living under his roof since the kid was eleven.
“How can you be so sure?” Shinsou asks, words as hollow as his insides and wobbling dangerously. “Out of all the kids, I’ve stayed the longest at Rusan. No one’s coming for me.”
A truth he’s known and understood ever since being placed in Rusan. Or he thought he understood, but putting it into spoken word and freeing it into the air results in his throat clogging uncomfortably, as if his body is desperately trying to keep it from escaping. Shinsou swallows, the action proving painful and his eyes begin to mist.
He ducks his head, cowering away from Aizawa’s blurring image in shame. Shinsou takes shaky, deep breaths through his nose as he forces nothing to spill over onto his cheeks.
“Oh, kid.” It’s unnerving, hearing Aizawa sound so stricken. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to carry all that by yourself, not anymore. Hitoshi, come here, please. Let me help you. I want to help you.”
Shinsou really wishes he could just disappear.
Why was he brought here? What lesson is he supposed to be learning?
The rough, irregular texture of the roof’s wall scraps against his skin as he pushes his palms on its edge. He glares at his slippered feet as he huffs uneven breaths, willing his eyes to dry and shrivel up in their sockets than to turn into a wailing infant in front of Aizawa. He’d literally rather die.
He’s not going to cry. He hasn’t cried in years, and he’s not going to start. He needs a smoke. He needs to bleed. He needs to repeatedly bash his head in some concrete.
“Hitoshi. May I come closer?”
Aizawa sounds remarkably patient for someone dealing with what is apparently the universe’s favourite chew toy. Maybe if the man comes close enough, he’ll simply push Shinsou over the edge and save everyone the trouble.
He wants the man to transport himself to the opposite end of the Earth. To stay as far away as humanly possible from Shinsou. To never speak with him ever again, never to train or touch to feed or anything, simply erased (pun intended) from Shinsou’s life. Just— gone. He needs Aizawa gone. Like cutting off a limb with gangrene.
But he also needs Aizawa. Shinsou needs Aizawa to… to, to—
“C-can you… ?” Shinsou raises his head, his throat bobbing perilously. The teacher still stands at the same spot, hands semi-raised in caution and eyes keenly upon the teen, unblinking. Shinsou licks his lips, his hands still merged with the wall, the drop still whispering his name. “I-I don’t know If I…”
He’s stuck. Lost against the current and with little hope of retrieval, unless Aizawa finds it within himself to throw out a lifebuoy.
Aizawa’s face blooms with a small smile. “Yeah.” He says, extending a hand upwards and taking a small step forwards. “C’mon. Come here. I’ve got you, kid.”
Shinsou stares at the offered appendage; calloused palm turned upwards and a bright beacon shining through the fog. Aizawa stands still, hand outstretched and letting Shinsou take the helm.
Admittedly, it takes Shinsou a moment. But Aizawa stays exactly where he is, and the teen eventually builds the courage. Releasing himself from the ledge’s shackles, Shinsou jerks a hand forward ungracefully, clutching like a toddler at the man’s hand and squeezing.
“There we go.” Aizawa squeezes back, and Shinsou wants to collapse. “You got it. Come here.”
Aizawa slowly pulls him inwards. As if freed from a snare, Shinsou stumbles forwards with legs suddenly made of gelatin as the air he breathes sting his lungs. He keeps his gaze downward, his vision unfocused and marred with tears collecting at the edges. Aizawa brings him in gently.
Shinsou swallows thickly when the man’s other arm raises once near enough. He stands before the man while still holding his hand in front of him, clinging to a literal lifeline. Feeling suspiciously like a lamb to slaughter, Aizawa curls an arm around Shinsou’s shoulders, coaxing the boy closer still—offering Shinsou the impossible.
It’s a terrible thing. Shinsou’s forehead makes contact with Aizawa’s shoulder and the teen’s arms fall limply to his sides, his teacher’s arms encircling him and Shinsou wants to scream. He wants to step away and run, he wants to jump into oblivion, he wants to take something sharp to himself and mangle his body beyond recognition, he wants to empty himself of his tears and scream.
It’s not Aizawa. It’s not real.
Shinsou lets out a tattered breath as he squeezes his eyes shut, his body beginning to tremble at the seams.
“It’s better to let it out, Hitoshi. You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep it all bottled up, you’ll make yourself implode that way.” Aizawa’s voice vibrates against Shinsou’s body softly, a hand rubbing up and down the boy’s back. “Crying is not a weakness. It is a human reaction. And whoever shamed you for it was not only irrational, but cruel as well.”
Breathe, in and out. In and out. He knows he shouldn’t, he can’t, because if Shinsou dares indulge it’ll only ruin him. It would leave him hopelessly starving, because he can’t have this. I-it’s not A-Aizawa. It’s not r-real.
But he raises his shaky hands, and—pinches at Aizawa’s uniform. He does not curl his arms around the man, does not cling to him, but sowing the seeds is bad enough. He feels as though he irreversibly sullies Aizawa’s clothing with dirt and grime by his mere contact.
In, then out.
Aizawa’s rhythmic stroking is a recipe that calls for Shinsou’s legs to buckle and give out from under him. It’s horrible. It’s wonderful. He needs to flee. He never wants to leave. Up and down. Careful, light strokes trailing the teen’s back that sing a soft symphony of refuge, a promise Shinsou needs, just like a lost wanderer in the desert needs water. But this isn’t an oasis, it’s a mirage undulating upon the horizon and offering only a single, merciless taste, cursing him to forever keep wanting.
This transcends the territory of pitiable. He’s just worthless. The throwaway kid no one wants.
He burrows closer. Aizawa’s capture scarf slithers away like a snake, slipping away from the man’s shoulders and silently allowing the teen access to nuzzle into the crook of the man’s neck. Shinsou shouldn’t. But he does.
He fists the lower part of the man’s jumpsuit as a means to keep his hands still, warding away his trembling but likewise to mitigate against his treacherous body from further reaching out and doing something fiendish like wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders. He’s already leaning far too heavily against the man as if he’s a sack of stones, but all energy has been seeped from him like he's a wrung out sponge.
Shinsou swallows thickly. A knotted ball of upset crowds his throat like a spindly mass of spiders, an undignified tirade of blubbering worming towards his mouth. Shinsou attempts to clear his throat, but the sound is wet and does little.
“What does,” he croaks, throat tight and muffled against the man, wishing he could suffocate. “What does a teacher do, if, if a student is. Y’know. Has scars and stuff. If a student told you in confidence that he, uhm, they sometimes h-hurt themselves, w-what would you do?”
He’s not Aizawa. But he can still bestow upon Shinsou some semblance of clarity. It would be—illogical, if Shinsou did not seize the opportunity. It’s always better to be prepared. He can better formulate a plan, or an exit strategy, if he had an idea on what to expect.
Aizawa takes a deep breath through his nose, arms still encircling Shinsou like a shelter. His voice is calm when he speaks, safely bringing Shinsou to shore and keeping him warm and dry.
“I would thank them for telling me. I would tell them that telling a teacher was the right thing to do. I would first dress any wounds, if there are any, and continue reassuring the student that they’re not in trouble nor that I am angry with them in any way. I would tell them their safety and wellbeing are paramount, and that while I am obliged to tell the school nurse and counselor, their confidentiality is important to me and we could further discuss if the parents or guardians need to be involved as well.” A large hand cradles the back of his head and Shinsou tightens his fists on the man’s jumpsuit. “Because there is always a possibility that home or a caregiver are not safe, and that would need immediate addressing.”
Shinsou has a roof over his head and is fed, provided he’s being good. It’s survivable. A constant reminder to be on his best behaviour which is an objectively good life lesson to have hammered into his skull. It could be worse. It could always be worse. If he’s going to become an underground Hero then he’ll need to know how to endure, the sooner the better.
“And,” Shinsou swallows again, quickly bringing a hand upwards to vigorously scrub his face before a tear can escape. “If they don’t want home to be t-told?”
“Then they will not be notified.” Shinsou has to clench his jaw so tightly it hurts, in order to keep a feeble keen at bay, focusing on Aizawa’s deep voice caressing his body just as the man’s arms do. “We would plan further from there to assess the situation and ensure the student’s safety, and if that means teaming with outside resources such as police or having to employ Hero work, then it will be done. I do not leave students behind, Hitoshi.”
“Okay.” Shinsou nods like a bobblehead against the man as he sniffs, hands having migrated to grapple Aizawa’s chest. “Okay.”
A thumb massages circles into Shinsou’s scalp, prompting a shudder to course down the boy’s body.
“Promise me,” Aizawa murmurs against Shinsou’s hair, words a physical weight. “That when you’re back home, you’ll tell either Hizashi or I about everything. I know it’s hard, and it’s scary, but I also know you’re brave. Please.”
Shinsou releases a trembling breath, burrowing into Aizawa’s collarbone and feeling as small as he was when he was eight years old and listening to mom hum as she runs the bathtub.
“I don’t think I can.” He whispers with shoulders taut, the meager strings holding him together very quickly beginning to fray.
“I know you can, kid. Just mention you’re having a difficult time. That’s all it takes, I know you can do it, Hitoshi.”
Shinsou sucks in his bottom lip and sinks his teeth into it, hoping to draw blood. He feels moisture trickle out of his nostrils as his eyes are resolutely glued shut and hoping to only exist in darkness.
“I-it’s hard.” He heaves, each breath leaving his lungs in tatters.
Aizawa’s voice turns pained. “I know.”
“I-I want,” Shinsou gasps, gulping air uselessly as his arms snake under Aizawa’s armpits to scrabble at the man’s back. “I want to be someone’s s-son.”
He wishes he never came here. He wishes he jumped as soon as he was able as his breaths turn into pants and tears collect in his lashes.
Aizawa tightens the embrace, holding Shinsou as the teen unravels.
“I’m sorry, Hitoshi. I’m sorry for everything.”
And so Shinsou grieves, open and ugly like a festering wound.
He doesn’t feel human. But when has Shinsou ever? Such privileges aren’t meant for him.
He’s since been swaddled in the futon. Tucked in and cooed over like a literal infant. Yamada had greeted him with a sad smile when Aizawa towed him back into the apartment, who guided Shinsou inside with an arm slung across the teen’s shoulder, and it was clear with just one look that the blond was aware of—everything. Every grizzly detail of Shinsou’s downfall. How, Shinsou didn't know nor had any energy to inquire, and Yamada himself graciously didn’t decide to pry when he cleaned Shinsou’s grimy face with tissues. Body a dead weight, Shinsou simply sat and allowed it, unable to even grouse that it was unnecessary and that he wasn’t a baby.
The air is weighted. Something sorrowful hangs inside the apartment to drape across each occupant as a shroud. Shinsou has been drained of any words, throat still uncomfortably tight and the skin of his face feeling as though it will slip off his skull at any moment.
It’s a reasonable thing to wish to cease to exist. This is what Shinous unanimously decides, with how wretched he feels. Taking another shower wouldn’t be unwarranted, but he’d rather sleep for eternity instead. Cocooned as he is in the futon, it’d be a conducive slumber.
His eyes glaze over as his breathing deepens, fatigue entombing him as gracefully as a landslide. Warmth glides across his forehead; Yamada has placed a comforting palm against his head, thumb stroking at his brow.
Aizawa and Yamada exist as two blurred figures that are kneeled beside him, presences promising sanctuary as the teen feels as though he sinks further and further into the ground.
Yamada’s voice is pleasant. “Hey. We’ll both be here when you wake up, okay? Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, little listener. Shou and I have got your back, always.”
And for some reason, as his eyes drift and exhaustion takes hold, Shinsou can wholeheartedly believe him.
His head is throbbing.
Consciousness reattaches to his body as if swimming through a viscous, thick fluid. He feels equal parts too heavy and too light, as he groggily attempts to remember where his limbs are.
“—Yamada Hizashi if you’re wearing your steel toed boots, I swear to—”
Shinsou squints his eyes open, his vision producing two blurry figures crouched over his supine body, the brightness of the clear sky drilling a hole through his head and not at all helping his burgeoning headache. Sunlight filters through the canopy of the trees above, and Aizawa’s voice sounds as if spoken through a wall, before Yamada’s loudness seemingly forcefully snaps Shinsou’s hearing back in place.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, little listener!” Yamada chirps—Mic-sensei, Present Mic, he has his distracting cockatoo updo on. “Can you tell us your name?”
Shinsou blinks dazedly. His vision readjusts and everything comes into crystal-clear focus: Yamada’s megawatt smile that is slightly strained at the edges, Aizawa’s piercing, unblinking stare and the green of the leaves above splattered across the blue of the sky. He feels the light weight of coils around his neck, mirrored by Aizawa’s own, and Shinsou dons his own capture scarf and presumably wears his PE uniform as well. In fact, he definitely does, as shards of his memory piece themselves together to remind him it is the afternoon, afterschool, situated still in the school grounds and the midst of a training session.
Notably, he is also reminded that he is not currently in an apartment living room. He’s laying flat on the grass despite the fact he was nestled in a futon only seconds prior. He doesn’t sleepwalk. Is that something someone can develop? Maybe in times of high stress? Oh no. He hopes this doesn’t mean he’ll have to tie an ankle to his bed to ensure he doesn’t go gallivanting when unconscious. Sleeping’s an already limited resource for him, it can’t be besmirched on top of that, come on.
Yamada has a palm caressing his forehead, though. That’s nice at least. The man was doing that last night, Shinsou remembers the feeling, as he chases the sensation by turning his face into the blond’s touch.
Aizawa is beginning to frown at him. Shinsou much prefers Yamada’s expression, which had done the funny thing of melting into some tender goop as soon as the teen moved closer into his contact. Oh wait, was Shinsou asked something?
The teen attempts to request clarification. “Huh?”
“Your name, kid. Tell us your name.” Aizawa elucidates flatly.
Right. He knows that one.
“… Shinsou Hitoshi.” Unfortunately.
Aizawa nods. “Good. And the date?”
That he knows too. Except when he says it, it tastes wrong upon his tongue. Shinsou squints at the foliage above, had he slept through the night? It’s the morning after, except—no, it’s the afternoon. Afterschool. The same day he woke up on that park bench. Right? Shinsou restates the date, and Yamada’s nod tells him he got the answer correct.
“Good going, kiddo. Can you squeeze my hand?” Yamada asks, using his free hand to clasp Shinsou’s own. Shinsou does as he is told and dutifully squeezes. He squeezes again, resolutely keeping his grip securely entwined within the man’s fingers, when Yamada makes the move to retract.
Yamada takes that, whatever the hell that was, in stride. He keeps holding Shinsou’s hand and merely continues. “Awesome, you’re a great little listener. Now wiggle your toes, yeah?”
Shinsou does him one better. He lifts a leg upwards and rotates an ankle to really showcase how well his head is still screwed to his body.
“Does it hurt anywhere?” Aizawa asks.
Does it? Not particularly. Just the side of his head produces an ache which in turn coaxes him into piecing together why exactly that is.
The memory of Yamada’s voice cheerfully announcing his roundhouse kick is what resurfaces very (painfully) clearly, a head-splitting thud, then darkness had taken over.
“Did you…” Shinsou starts, turning his gaze to the blond. “Kick me in the face?”
Yamada gives an apologetic wince. “Listen, in my defense, your head was in the way of my kick. I’ll let you get a hit in so we can even it out, how’s that sound?”
Aizawa heaves an annoyed sigh. “Shinsou. Where does it hurt?”
No. That's not right. On the rooftop and under the stars the man had given him the illusion of familiarity that Shinsou still needs, as his eyes ready to betray him with a collection of tears sprouting from the corners.
“You can call me Hitoshi,” he says before he can stop himself. Please, he adds internally.
He watches Aizawa stare at him. Yamada raises a brow to his hairline.
“... Hitoshi.” The man amends slowly. “Can you tell me if you feel pain anywhere?”
Oh yeah. Loads. As if all his scars have simultaneously re-opened.
“Uhm,” Shinsou warbles, blinking rapidly. “J-just the side of my head.”
It felt—
Real.
Shinsou can still feel the morning dew that collected on the park bench across his back, and the warmth amassed in his nest of a futon. The gyudon is still ashen between his teeth as is the softness of Haru and Maru’s silken fur still present in his palms. Aizawa’s arms are still encircling him as a promise, far surpassing any relief of any earthly comfort and Yamada’s palm is still resting on his forehead. Literally, that’s real, he currently feels the weight of the man’s hand above his brow and the associated emanating warmth of skin-to-skin contact, that’s real.
A tightness grows in his throat as his vision begins to distort. Yamada squeezes his hand. It causes Shinsou’s breath to hitch embarrassingly.
Yamada’s expression has morphed into alarm. “Oh. Oh, I’m really sorry sweetheart. I didn’t mean to make you cry. My bad.” His hand moves downwards to cup Shinsou’s cheek, which really isn’t helping things at all. “Hey, I’m gonna hustle for an ice pack for ya, y’dig? Be back in a flash, and Eraser here will keep you company in the meanwhile!”
The blond quickly retracts, hopping up before taking flight in a sprint as if fire was chasing him. Shinsou watches the man’s retreating form helplessly, before the trickle of a single tear prompts the boy to immediately jolt upwards to a sitting position and scrub his face with his sleeve.
A hand is placed on his shoulder to steady him. “Slow down, don’t push yourself.” Aizawa calmly says. “You’re going to get some bruising on your face, but otherwise you’re completely fine. Recovery Girl is still in until evening, we’ll take you to her before you have to go home. There is no permanent damage.”
Home. ‘Home.’ That makes his insides shrivel up and crumble to dust. Shinsou thinks he might have to purposefully be late so he won’t have to set foot inside the home. The doghouse or a bench sounds infinitely more appealing at the moment. Too bad it doesn’t get cold enough overnight at this time of year for hypothermia to set in.
Shinsou glares at the ground. “This is so stupid.”
It wasn’t—it wasn’t even a quirk?
How the hell can Yamada’s boot send him flying to an alternate reality? Does the man possess some sort of secondary space-time alteration quirk no one knows about because it’s only activated by roundhouse kicks?
The logical explanation is that Shinsou suffered some sort of brain damage that had him conjure some frightfully realistic delusion while unconscious. His subconscious was literally just torturing him with the feelings and thoughts he refuses to acknowledge, like unearthing a grave, forcing him to face it all.
But. But… he remembers. All of it. In crystal, high definition clarity as if he possesses a photographic memory.
(Clawing at Aizawa’s jumpsuit as he burrows his face closer and seeking to disappear, releasing guttural noises he thought no longer existed inside him as he clung desperately to the man, hoping if he held tightly enough he could have it. All of it. Wordlessly, he begged Aizawa to never let him go.)
“Can you scale your pain out of ten? One being a headache and ten being your skull is splitting open.” Aizawa asks.
He really should have taken something sharp to himself. Not only to submerge into the calm of drawing blood, but to hold proof his whole one-day vacation into the mirror-dimension actually happened. It would have been quick and practically painless. But Shinsou’s always just the failure in any given situation, huh?
Shinsou rolls his eyes. “Four. Three. Whatever. I’ve had worse. This is—I’m not crying.” He rubs his face as Aizawa stares unhelpfully. “I’m not. I’m n-not a baby.”
“You are. Crying, that is.” His mentor simply states like a liar, because Shinsou’s eyes are just moist. “And it’s okay, you’re hardly the first, nor the last, student to shed tears during training. It happens, it's normal, and nothing to be ashamed of. Crying is not a weakness. It is a human reaction. And whoever shamed you for it was not only irrational, but cruel as well.”
Okay. Well. That’s—okay.
It’s as if the man smacked him upside the head. Shinsou blinks owlishly at the man who sits nonchalantly next to him, Aizawa’s face holding his usual tired expression but eyes possessing a keen glint that shows he is closely observing Shinsou.
Can that be constituted as a coincidence? Seems like too long of a phrase to be swept under the rug as much.
Okay. Good. A sign? Divine intervention? He probably shouldn’t ignore this.
“Oh.” Blink, blink, blink. “Do y-you really mean that?”
Aizawa looks at him for a long moment.
“I have no reason to lie to you about this. Crying is a natural response and helps to reduce stress. Every human who has ever existed has cried.”
Aizawa sits near enough that if Shinsou were to tip over, he could nuzzle into the crook of the man’s shoulder again. ‘Again.’ The phantom sensations of being held by the man is definitely going to be a curse that will set Shinsou to ruin—but it does do well in drowning out the phantom sound of… Dad’s… no, his sperm donor’s voice assuring him that if he doesn’t stop weeping, he’ll give Shinsou something to cry over, a mantra which echoes through the recesses of his consciousness.
Shinsou turns his gaze skyward, wishing for the sun to dry his eyes with a death ray. “I hate t-this.”
Maybe he wants to stop feeling like this for once.
“We still have time to find an insect or two to greet Mic with when he comes back.” Aizawa mildly states, briefly glancing at the grass surrounding them for a six-legged friend. “That way I can show you that grown men cry too.”
Shinsou huffs a small laugh against his will, harkening to the memory of how he found out Yamada had a phobia of bugs when he collected a male rhinoceros beetle in his palm one day and attempted to show the adults his find. The result was Yamada slapping his hands over his mouth in order to curb his shriek, and somehow instantly transporting behind Aizawa for protection.
“That’s mean.” Shinsou sniffs. “I don’t wanna, wanna be mean. I like Yamada-sen, sensei.”
“A kinder man than I.”
Shinsou rubs a wrist over his stubborn eyes that are trying their damndest to leak. “You should be nicer to your h-husband.”
The thought of Aizawa and Yamada sharing a meal in their apartment alongside a… purple haired individual comes to him unbidden. It promptly reopens his tear ducts, making Shinsou continue his scrubbing, heedless to Aizawa’s continued scrutiny.
“Hm. Did Mic tell you we are married?”
“No, it was—“ Nezu-san but from either a different dimension or a fever dream I made up? “—uhm. Lucky guess?”
Okay. So they are married. That’s… good? Great. Now all Shinsou needs to do is build the words asking if they’re in the market for a maladjusted teen with an untold amount of issues.
“Well, congratulations. You’re smarter than the entirety of my class put together.” Aizawa drawls.
English is heard just as Shinsou feels himself preening at the praise. “Here comes the ice, ice baby!” Yamada quickly approaches, lowering himself to sit beside Shinsou as he hands over a welcomed ice pack. “Here you are, little listener, that should feel real nice on your noggin. Just remember what they say: whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! Soon enough, you’ll be the one to rock out some groovy moves and knock ne’er-do-wells out cold.”
It’s a much appreciated mask of icy coolness that cushions the side of his head, and Shinsou only notes now a slight swelling forming. Shinsou mumbles his thanks, sitting cross-legged and staring downwards, mindlessly fisting blades of grass with his free hand.
He leans further into the ice, hoping it could freeze the entirety of his face and leave him paralyzed with a brain made numb, all neurons simply frozen in place and impossible to think.
The two men are both so close. Mere arm lengths away on either side but across literal dimensions, amorphous and unreachable and like water escaping through the cracks of his fingers. Just as it were on the rooftop: like trying to catch smoke, no matter how tightly he clung to the man’s jumpsuit and begged for everything to be different.
His breath quickens as it frays at the edges, eyes screwed shut to hold the oncoming barrage of salty tears at bay, and maybe he really should’ve just jumped.
“Where does it hurt, Hitoshi?” Yamada says way too gently, like Shinsou could actually deserve it. Shouldn’t he be enforcing a boundary, as a teacher with a student? Because—that’s all they are to each other. Teacher and student and nothing more.
A hand strokes his back. Yamada has leaned closer because he’s a terrible person.
Where does it hurt? Everywhere.
Shinsou chokes on a breath, one hand squeezing the ice pack and the other fisting his uniform shirt in a half self-hug. “I-it’s not that."
“Then what is it, little listener? You can tell us.”
“I just want, I want,” he gasps wetly, too many wretched things warring inside him that savage his very insides into tattered rags better left thrown away.
And what does he want?
I want my own room—
I want to eat Yamada’s cooking—
I want Aizawa’s hugs—
I don’t want to be afraid anymore—
I want to hang from a tree using my capture scarf—
“I wanna cycle again.”
A feeble, broken thing. Too ugly to even be pitiable.
“T-they don’t let me cycle anymore. I’m never g-good enough for t-them.”
The ice pack falls into his lap like a sad fish, the throbbing of his head long since receding. Shinsou drops his head to press his palms against his eyes and hopes that his hands are big enough to forever hide his face from the world.
In and out. Breathe. Crawl into a hole and die. Yamada makes a sympathetic noise as he continues rhythmically stroking Shinsou’s back soothingly. It’s as if the man tunes an instrument, with how Shinsou stutters out noises in tandem.
“Who are ‘they’? Your guardians?” Aizawa’s voice asks from his side and Shinsou nods. “The Rusan staff don’t allow you to cycle? Why?”
Dumb. Just so dumb. Stupid. Completely useless. Why couldn’t he have been born literally anyone else?
Shinsou continues wiping his face to ensure no wetness spills onto his cheeks, making his eyes puffy and red as a result.
“I got into a fight. At school, t-two years ago.” He mumbles, ready for Yamada’s hand to retract and to receive a proper scolding for always getting into trouble for no reason.
“Sheesh. Talk about holding a grudge.” Yamada huffs, digging into his uniform to magically produce tissues for Shinsou’s ready disposal. “Hey, little listener, UA’s got a smoking cycling club! You just gotta sign up and then you can borrow some wheels, they’ve got group tours or you can go solo with your own private Tour de France. Your class prez Iseri-kun is in it! It’d be a great way to make some pals.”
Shinsou blows his nose, replacing the ice pack to his head and glowering staunchly at the ground.
“Want my own bike.” So petulant, so childish. “I-I miss just, just going out. Having a bike. Ugh.”
He has a bike, he lives with cats, he has Aizawa and Yamada call him by his first name because he is their—son. Their son. Since he was eleven. Shinsou was still crying in bed and freezing at the sound of running water at eleven.
Aizawa speaks, voice flat. “It isn't very reasonable that you’ve been barred from a hobby you clearly enjoy for an infraction two years ago.”
Yamada hums. “Yeah… and something tells me that we don’t really need the other side of the story to know its a load’a malarkey. Exercise should always be encouraged for a growing boy like you.”
They’re both extraordinarily nonchalant over Shinsou’s sudden nonsensical whining about cycling. Maybe Shinsou is still faraway in some other reality. Because why else are they even entertaining… whatever this is.
Whatever… that was, whether it was true dimensional travel or Yamada’s kick knocked a few screws loose. There’s a constant sour taste in his mouth that never fades no matter how many times he swallows, pooling between his teeth like he’s about to vomit and stain the grass he sits on.
“I hate being bad.” Shinsou does not whimper, with his vision continuing to be blurry and a pressure mounting behind his sternum.
His smokes should exist in this reality. Small mercies. Add some more scars while he’s at it.
“You’re not bad, Hitoshi.” Yamada snakes his arm to rest across Shinsou’s shoulders and it’s a conscious effort not to lean into him. “Would someone who’s bad really make the decision, everyday, to continue striving to become a Hero?”
Aizawa says, “People who ascribe certain titles to you do so because they have made up a false version of you in their heads. It isn’t reflective of reality and is entirely irrational. They are wrong about you, Hitoshi. They don’t know you.”
Aizawa and Yamada’s voices are both steady. Each of them speaks aloud of a certainty that leaves Shinsou dizzy. It automatically grips the teen by the throat.
He dazedly raises his head to look at Yamada like an idiot. The blond responds with a small smile, welcoming but tinged with the undercurrent of something sad. Shinsou turns to bashfully peek at Aizawa, suddenly wishing for a fringe to hide behind, and the man regards him calmly. Nothing hints that the man is (rightfully) annoyed or that his words are some sort of logical ruse for him to decipher.
Shinsou drops the ice pack to cradle it in his lap, heat very quickly coalescing across his face as he winces. Can he just ask Yamada to knock him out again?
“Sorry. I…” words clog his throat and he needs to swallow what feels like bile creeping upwards. “I’ve been having. Uh, a rough time lately.”
That’s putting it lightly. If he told them he stood on the edge of the roof and… contemplated…
Maybe they would hold him. That’d be nice.
“Yeah, buddy?” Yamada softly says, rubbing Shinsou’s shoulder. “You wanna tell us about it, little listener? Eraser and I are always here to help you, no matter the tune you sing.”
Shinsou feels the cool air of the rooftop, envisioning the twinkling cityscape and the sheer drop to the sidewalk below.
Where were you when I was eleven?
He never did make that promise.
Shinsou coughs, bringing a hand upwards to awkwardly rub the back of his neck. “What’s uh, what’s the school dress code for nail polish?”
The deflection is not particularly elegant. Nor particularly—relevant. He doesn’t want to paint his nails.
His… biological parents… would not. Like that. The idea of him painting his nails. Just like they didn’t like his hair or eyes or weight or clothes or, or. Anything. He became less and less of that perfect living doll as he grew up and was no longer an easily managed infant. Shinsou knows they never forgave him for that.
Shinsou regularly chews his nails because he’s trying to collect all the bad habits available to him. Nail polish would just add another thing for him to fiddle and consequently annoy the people around him with.
“Solid colours are fine and keep your nails short, unless you got a quirk that is related to your nails.” Yamada parrots to him. The man raises a hand to show off his own nails, clear but obviously well maintained. Does he get them manicured? “What colours are you thinking of, little listener? When I was your age, I wore alternating neon yellow, green, pink, orange and blue on each finger of both hands! Good times.”
Maybe. He wants to paint his nails. He’d have to hide it if he got any; he’d be expected to share or outright give it away to any of the other children at Rusan if they whine enough about it. Shinsou would have to keep it in his gym locker alongside his capture scarf, items designated as too precious to ever cross into Rusan’s boundary.
Shinsou bites the inside of his cheek. “I… I dunno. Maybe, uh black? Lavender?”
Yamada smiles brightly at Shinsou, something's that's still a bewildering sight to have aimed at him. “Oh ho ho, excellent choices!”
Yamada squeezes his shoulders before retracting his touch. Don’t smile. Shinsou can’t do that because his smile is ugly. He bites down on his lip to curb it, ducking his head and glancing at Aizawa.
“That suits you.” Aizawa says. Smiles. A small, near imperceptible lifting of his lips, before the man leans forward and places a hand on Shinsou’s shoulder. “Remember you have my number, Hitoshi. If things get rough, I want you to text or call me, alright? I don’t like having to repeat myself, kid, so nod if what I just said has gone through your thick skull.”
It takes a moment. Because Shinsou’s brain needs to restart and relearn Japanese, but he jerks a nod out when Aizawa raises a brow at him.
“Oh! That reminds me,” Yamada chirps. “What's your thought on us completing the trifecta, eh? You wouldn’t mind snagging my number as well, right? That way if Eraser is ever busy, you got a backup! No objections to a group chat with us all, yeah?”
This is—a lot.
And it must show in his expression because Aizawa then assures: “You can say no.”
Maybe he should. He doesn’t.
“It’d be cool, I. We can do that, yeah.” Shinsou says, feeling the tension seep from his body with his vision clearing and no longer blurry. “Thanks.”
He clumsily retrieves his phone and opens his contacts, noting peripherally a series of unsent texts meant for Aizawa that he’ll have to check later, and hands the device over to Yamada to input his number.
Aizawa nods, and heaves himself up to stand. “Keep the ice pack on. Let’s get you to Recovery Girl.”
They walk together. Yamada ruffles his head and nearly restarts the waterworks. Aizawa lumbers with his hands in his pockets and periodically shoots glances at him, as if afraid Shinsou is going to slip through the ground.
There are. Many things. Festering inside Shinsou. He wastes away while still actively breathing, body an unwieldy thing that he can hardly pilot most days. Running water might be just a little bit scary for him again. Maybe it was always scary. He has scars all over his skin.
It’s a weight that he does not know how to live without. One that… maybe Aizawa and Yamada could help shoulder. Maybe not. He’d have to formulate a proper script to rehearse in order to—tell them. He has to be good with words considering his quirk, it’d be good practice, good exercise.
Just—
Maybe tomorrow.
Notes:
Don’t you just love it when you try to make a humorous one-shot and it develops a mind of its own and spirals completely out of control, going in an entirely different direction and quintupling the word count? Yeah.
Now imagine a part two wherein Shinsou eventually builds up the courage to tell Aizawa and/or Yamada about Everything; the bullying, his tumultuous home life, self harming and suicidal ideation, and receiving the love and support and all the hugs he needs. He gets served the adoption papers and they live happily ever after.
Okay, I know there's some unresolved stuff in this story and it would benefit with a sequel, and I do want to play around in this AU more because I like Shinsou whump, but don't expect anything anytime soon. I make no promises. But Shinsou having a very bad time and Aizawa and Yamada becoming his dads is just so <3333Well, there's a sequel now!(Well, while we're on topic of things I wanna write, I've been itching to write the AU in this AU: of Shinsou being put under Aizawa/Yamada’s care at >15 years old and the trials and tribulations thereof. But that's something that could easily balloon into a novel, so who knows if I'll ever get to it. Probably not, but it’s fun to think about.)
Uh, anyway fun fact: the ending was completely redone, and originally it was meant to transition from Shinsou trudging to the roof and then directly to him waking up, the implication being that he jumped. Which I think is a shocking ending that could’ve worked but as I was re-reading it felt cheap and unearned, sooooo I changed it all. Added in some catharsis. But fuck is dialogue hard LOL. Hope it paid off!
Lastly, I have no idea if merging kanji is at all a thing Japanese couples do, but presumably hyphenating last names isn’t really a thing as it can be in the West? Whatever, I just wanted Shinsou to have a conniption over the passing thought of taking their names, lmao. Also, another fic idea: the little family having the same family name (being some combination of Aizawa/Yamada) and despite this, no one can put two and two together that Shouta and Hizashi are married and Hitoshi is their son, lolololol.
Okay, enough of this word salad. Thanks for reading!
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